


The Last Wish

by lciel



Series: The Seed that Burst into Flame [7]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Abduction, Blackmail, Character Death, F/M, Fantastic Racism, Feelings, Gen, M/M, Politics, Vampires, protective Geralt, scoia'tael - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-06-21 08:24:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15553638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lciel/pseuds/lciel
Summary: As the convoy of the Temerian queen gets attacked on their journey back from the Imperial wedding, Geralt volunteers to help. Picking up his swords and horse, it is time for Geralt and Roach to embark on a last great adventure. Yet friends and foes have changed since the last time they were on the Path, and the witcher himself is not the same man. Not in the least, because he is leaving behind something precious in the city of the golden towers... main pairing: Emhyr/Geralt, others barely mentioned. plot-centricOMG, it's another sequel!!!





	1. Lilies in the Snow

 

_The month of Velen in the year 1285 entered the chronicles of our world as one of these short time periods when great changes come about very swiftly. With the curse the Lodge of Sorceresses put upon the Emperor, Emhyr var Emreis, they set in motion a series of events no party to become involved could have entirely foreseen. The Lodge’s intent had been to prevent the seemingly childless Emperor from abdicating to his protégé, Morvran Voorhis, and instead to secure the accession of Princess Cirilla onto the throne of Nilfgaard. Emhyr var Emreis had sent the General North, to prove himself in pacifying the uprisings in Aedirn, a region of the Nilfgaardian Empire leaderless since the demise of its last King, Demawend III. General Voorhis second task in the North, then only known to few, was to forge an alliance with Tankred Thyssen, the King of Kovir. In exchange for Kovir’s generous engagement to rebuild Aedirn, the nephew of King Tankred, Guiscard Vermuellen, distantly related to Demawend through their shared ancestor Agnes, would become the new King of Aedirn. Upon successful negotiations in the name of Emperor Emhyr var Emreis with the rulers of Kovir, Temeria, and Rivia-Lyria over the future of Aedirn, Redania-Kaedwen’s demands on Upper Aedirn were refuted. General Voorhis return to Nilfgaard to finalise the treaty, however, was delayed by the Lodge, who conjured a storm that destroyed half of the General’s fleet, and may have ended his life had he not been able to summon reinforcements. With the aid of the mage Cynthia Apeldoorn, the General survived. He returned to the capital on the 22 nd of Velen, escorted by the loyal forces of Field Marshal Havard var Moehoen._

_In the meantime, however, the Lodge of Sorceresses had lured the Princess Cirilla, long believed dead, to the capital to aide her ailing father, the Emperor. The Lodge sought to blackmail Cirilla with her father’s life to return to court. At that time it was revealed that Emhyr var Emreis, succumbing to the foul magic, had abdicated from the throne to prevent the Empire from falling into the chaos of an inter regnum. Thus Cirilla seized the crown on the fateful 22 nd of Velen, when her claim was stated before the Imperial Senate at Velen tower. Having fulfilled the demands the Lodge placed upon her, the curse upon her father was released. In the previous night, however, the Princess had secretly visited the General, seeking his support against her extortionists. Thus it came that on that very day, Morvran and Cirilla tricked the Lodge of Sorceresses: He supported her claim to become Empress, thus freeing Emhyr var Emreis, and in return she accepted his proposal of marriage. On Yule 1286, they were to be married, so that together they could be crowned Emperor and Empress of Nilfgaard on the very same day. And thus ended the glorious reign of Emhyr var Emreis, and the golden reign of Morvran and Cirilla began._

_Thus it is written in the Encyclopaedia Maxima Mundi_

 

 

~*~

 

The City of Rivia - The 14th of Yule, 1268

_Dear Emhyr,_

_The commander of the regiment here in Rivia has assured me that this letter will find you privately. I have some doubts, even if this is sent as diplomatic mail. I have seen too much of that kind intercepted in my years. So I will limit what I write here. I have arrived well, and King Anséis’ men have not hindered me in the slightest. Whatever that letter meant that Morvran wrote for me, it worked. Meara and I have been provided with rooms in the ‘best’ inn in town, the Cock and Bull. The food is not as good, but it bears less memories than Wirsing’s Inn. That is where I stayed before the pogrom, when they killed me with that bloody pitchfork. Did I ever tell you about that? It hurt. Ciri saved my life. Took Yen and I to an island where the trees are always in bloom. Anyhow. Now half the city council has been around to visit me, making sure that I am ‘comfortable’. If they keep that up, I will have no time to actually fulfil the contract. If I am not careful, I fear that King Anséis may summon me to apologise for the poor treatment all those years ago…_

_So far, I have spoken with some of the soldiers who were on patrol on the pass to Carreas. They don’t seem to know much, apart from the general consensus that the roads are dangerous. The units meant to patrol the stretch of road leading by Mount Carbon apparently try to get through that bit as fast as possible, rather than to actually stay and guard anything. My impression from the traders is that they hire additional guards when crossing the forests there. If we want to learn anything useful, I think we will need to go to Mahakam or Carreas, maybe even Vizima to find the Temerian troops who guarded Queen Anaïs, or find tracks of where the ambush happened._

_It would also be a way of shaking this ridiculous throng of idiots, who keep visiting to get in a good word to Ciri._

_I’ll be in touch when I can, and tell Morvran and Ciri I am doing my best to find him as quickly as possible._

_Yours, Geralt_

~*~

_On the road north of Rivia, 16 th of Yule, 1268_

 

Roach trudged through the snow ahead of Meara’s fox, the fine crystals crunching under their hooves. Thick blankets had been spread over the horses’ backs below the saddles, and their riders were wrapped in thick bearskin coats, fur gloves and boots. Geralt had collected the black stallion from Corvo Bianco on his way north, unable to conceive of replacing the loyal old steed. If everything went according to plan, this would be their last great adventure together, before both of them went into their well-deserved retirement from the Path. Throughout his long life and many adventures, all the Roaches at his side had been his beautiful girls. The stallion Emhyr had given him a decade ago, it seemed, would be the last Roach, and his first and only beautiful boy. Be it for the erstwhile emperor to upset all his long-established tastes, the witcher groused, quenching the odd pang of longing in his guts. There had been no time to say good-bye to Emhyr, and even a man like Geralt knew that leaving without having clarified anything between them was not the best course of action. Not … not after what had happened on the night of Yule. He huffed at the warm feelings that fluttered around his guts. The cold wind bit into the witcher’s shawl-covered face, reminding him of where he was. Redirecting his attention to the roads, he wondered just how easily he had gotten soft under the southern sun.

The main road from Rivia was a stone-paved straight line that ran unerringly through the dense forests on the eastern slope of the Mahakam Mountains. The stone was covered in thick, fluffy snow, but with the broad aisle cut into the forest, the road was impossible to lose. After the conquest, Emhyr had extended the Nilfgaardian road network into the Northern Kingdoms, and ever since it took only about ten days to reach Toussaint from the capital of the Empire, two weeks to Rivia, and another two days towards Vizima, crossing the Mahakam pass towards Carreas. Somewhere on this road, about a week ago, the entourage of the Queen of Temeria had been attacked from the woods by archers. Whereas the largest part of her guard had driven on the horses and made fast to take the queen away from danger, Commander Roche had taken a smaller number of his soldiers to attack the archers. That was the last anyone had seen of him, for those men and women had never returned. When the word had spread to Nilfgaard, the new emperor had been furious. Red-faced and seething, the habitually calm man had retreated from his parlour, to the quiet confusion of his typically quite vocal queen. Geralt had not been aware of the friendship between the Morvran Voorhis and the Temerian commander, but Emhyr had filled him in on the support Temeria had given Morvran in Aedirn, in no small part achieved through the help of Vernon Roche. It made sense that the emperor took an interest in his friend’s fate. Ciri and Geralt had been worried as well. They had not been in contact since the battle against the Wild Hunt on Skellige, judging it too dangerous for Roche and Ves to know Ciri was alive. Yet they had never forgotten the aid those two had given them all those years ago. It was for that reason that when the blackmailer’s demands had reached the emperor, Geralt had offered to go to the borderlands between Rivia and Mahakam and to track down the attackers who had abducted their old friend. Also, there was the fact that the Emperor of Nilfgaard had to stand above negotiating with terrorists, whereas a witcher … had more flexibility in his methods.

As additional support, Rideaux had sent Meara to meet him in Rivia. Just in time for their arrival in the city, a massive snow storm had stalled all traffic. Only now, two days later, had the witcher dared to take the horses into the mountains. Whatever tracks there had been would likely be covered by several inches of snow, he had thought, but it might nevertheless be worth to take a look around.

When they eventually found the site of the ambush, it was simply due to the large Temerian banner hanging from a long pole, stuck into the ground. The silver lilies on black were speckled with dark spots. Blood. A white heap beneath the pennant turned out to be a body, frozen in the cold. He brushed off the snow and knelt to examine it more closely while Meara stood guard. It was a woman, dressed in the uniform of the Temerian Queen’s Guard, though most of the armour was missing. No weapons or other utensils. Even her boots were gone. The colouring of the body suggested she had died before being frozen. Turning her around, the witcher found the puncture marks of arrows in her back, a long graze along her neck, and scratches on her wrists. Rope burns. The tip of one arrow had broken off. It was still buried under the skin. He dug it out with his dagger to examine the make. Hm. It was bone, elven style. Well crafted, but not very strong. An arrow like this would not have pierced her breastplate, certainly not deep enough to become lodged in her back like this. An ambush did not explain the marks on her back… Her armour must have been off before she was shot at. He examined the graze more closely. Ah. Marks of poison. If the graze of a poisoned arrow had knocked her out, maybe the other shots had come later, possibly when he had been tied up, or if she had tried to flee…

He got up. Clearly the body had been deposited here on purpose. That meant that the attackers had stayed around, at least for a while. The witcher put the clues together: an attack from the woods in the borderlands between Temeria, Aedirn, and Rivia, archers with cheap elven arrows, and an obvious provocation in the form of the body and the blackmail addressed to the new emperor. This either were Scoia’tel, or somebody replicating their style. In either case, the Scoia’tel would know. It was time to call on some old acquaintances…

~*~

Wherever he was, blindfolded, it was cold. The wall to which his hands were chained, behind his back, was slippery with ice. He had been barely conscious when they had dragged him down a set of stairs. The clanging metal and endless silence suggested some kind of dungeon or cave. Somewhere underground. And isolated. Apart from the occasional footsteps of a guard on patrol, he heard absolutely nothing. It worried him just a little. Not the chains, or the certainty that he was in the hands of enemies. He recalled the angry elven faces and squirrel tails on their ragged clothing well enough. No, it was the fact that they had isolated him here – wherever here was. Twice a day, somebody brought him food. There was a smelly fur on which he could rest without freezing to death. So he knew they meant to keep him alive. The odd thing was that nobody had asked him any questions yet, not after days. Even the worst torture master would not waste that much time for suspense without at least making the smallest threat. Which suggested he was not here for information, but as a hostage. And that sucked, because if anything, Vernon Roche was a realist: His men respected the hell of him, and Ves was crazy enough to save his hide under most circumstances. Unfortunately, the last time he had seen her, she had been kicked in the face by half a dozen angry squirrels, on the ground only metres away from him, surrounded by their defeated comrades. Which did not leave that many allies around to dash to his rescue. This insight moved his brain on to the next issue: hostage meant somebody being blackmailed, and there were not that many people who gave a shit about his hide and were worth blackmailing. He reckoned that any message to Anaïs would have arrived a fortnight ago. Given the fact that he was still stuck in this hellhole, he doubted the terms had been to her liking. Or … no, not even that bugger Iorveth was crazy enough to blackmail the emperor. Facts needed to be faced. At the end of the day, Vernon Roche was not a princeling from a rich, influential family that a monarch needed to appease – he was simply a whoreson, damn useful, but easy enough to discard when the time came.

Now if only he could get his hands on a knife, things might not look as bleak, but with the damned isolation, opportunities to filch something or talk somebody into treason were rather scarce. Sucking on his lip, Roche stared unseeing into the dark and waited.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from the journal entry in the games: “There is a man like Vernon Roche in every monarch's retinue. Brave and determined, ready to execute any command, and thoroughly hated at court, he knows that only allegiance and service to the king keep him in his position.” And the wiki: “If each of his enemies gave him an oren, he could buy Temeria together with its nearby lands, and if each of his friends came to bury him, Roche would have to do it himself. Apparently, it is enough to put a knife into his coffin and he will succeed.”
> 
> R&R, if you like it!


	2. Cave Lupos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lat. 'beware the wolves'

_19 th Yule, Vizima, the Capital of Temeria_

_Dear Ciri,_

_I am taking the opportunity to send a message with Cynthia. We have found some signs on the road from Rivia to Carreas. Bone arrows of elven make, and a dead solider of the Blue Stripes deposited on the road. They are sending a message. I have gone to Vizima to talk to the guards who escaped with the queen, while Meara will pay a visit to the dwarves at Mount Carbon. The guards don’t know much, but what strikes me is that nobody among them was injured during their flight, apart from those that were shot right at the beginning of the ambush. Whoever attacked them did not try very hard to reach the queen._

_While I am here, I will call on some old acquaintances in the area to see if they can arrange a meeting with the Scoia’tael. I hope you are well and that we will see each other again soon. Give my greetings to Emhyr,_

_Geralt_

~*~

Emhyr was pacing across the floor of his parlour – her parlour, she had to remind herself. The empress was seated behind her desk, arms crossed over her chest, following her father’s movement with a defensive frown.

“Geralt can take care of himself,” she muttered, only to be confronted with a snarl. Emhyr did not approve of the witcher’s plan to find the Scoia’tael. Ever since she had shared the letter with him, her father’s brows had narrowed to create an increasingly stormy expression on his face. He had not said a word, but his tense back and clenched mouth did not require much skill to interpret.

“He is not a simple witcher anymore,” the former emperor grit out, clenching and unclenching the fingers of his fists behind his back, “The value of his life, from the perspective of our enemies, has risen sharply. Opportunities to present himself as neutral, which he may have had in the past, will be less credible. I fea-” her father broke off, twisting the corners of his mouth.

“He is not stupid,” she injected gently, suppressing a grin. Of all possible complaints she had expected, it had never occurred to her that Emhyr might worry about Geralt’s safety, but in reflection it made sense. The two of them had formed the strangest bond in the last month. To her frustration, they were also being characteristically tight-lipped about it. Vividly, she remembered the evening in early Saovine, when Geralt had turned up at her door, clearly brooding about something. He had not said anything revealing at first, hanging around while she fought to get the pins out of her hair. It had been a long day under the instruction of her father, and she needed a break from protocol and appearances. With a small chuckle, Geralt had moved to stand behind her and gently untangled the tresses. She had asked him if he remembered that time in Kaer Morhen, when he had learned to braid her hair, with big clumsy fingers, following a child’s determined instructions. Almost two decades later in the palace, the memory had made them both giggle, and to prove a point, he had wound her hair into a perfect plait. When he dropped his hands away, she had given him a fond look and asked him to spit out what was bothering him. He had told her about Peter then, and the idea to help Emhyr visit his grave.

It was the dreams, she reckoned, that had brought them closer together. Some part of her envied them both for the opportunity to look behind each other’s shields. But then, she admitted, she was probably not ready to see her father completely unguarded. And as for Geralt, she had long learned to read the emotions off his face. In between their occasional deeper discussions, it would have to be enough. 

She hoped Geralt would find Roche and Ves soon, also for Morvran’s sake. Her husband had been distant since the day they learned about the disappearance of the Temerian commander. She understood that he was upset, but she could not help feel a bit wronged. When the box with the chaperon and the demands had been delivered, they had all been upset. Geralt had immediately offered his assistance, and gratefully, Morvran had asked the witcher to prepare for his departure at once. Ciri had thought it a good idea at the time to send Geralt. He knew the North well, was more subtle than an army, and had handled similar situations before. Vattier had agreed with them, offering to start his own investigations and send Meara and Apeldoorn to help. The plans had been made so quickly she had almost missed how her father had withdrawn from the discussion. And then, once Geralt was gone, she had found herself suddenly surrounded by silent men.

“Do you think it was too risky to send him?” she asked her father, watching him halt in his pace across the parlour, and exhale audibly. He did not reply for a while, and eventually just shrugged his shoulders wearily.

~*~

The Temple District of Vizima had not changed one bit, and even the snow did not make it any prettier, so quickly was it trodden into grey and brown sludge. Thaler still lived in the same old house, if Meara was to be believed. So the witcher knocked on the door loudly, and waited. Nobody opened for a while, and he was about ready to leave, when a dirty boy turned up next to him and offered a note. “Come to the New Narakort, first floor” it read. With a sigh, Geralt made his way into the trader’s quarter and found the pub, the first floor, and the head of Temeria’s intelligence, who looked more like a beggar every day.

“Thaler,” he greeted and sat with a beer to toast with the other. Geralt could not be sure, but Thaler looked tired and slightly unwell.

“The White Wolf himself,” the spy smiled thinly, “you have made it far recently.”

“Maybe,” Geralt allowed, “but that is not what takes me here to have a chat with you.”

“Isn’t it?” Thaler pondered, putting down his drink and fixing the witcher with a calculating stare, “I am wrong then, and you are not here on the personal orders of the Imperial Family of Nilfgaard, of which you so recently became a member?”

Geralt did not like the gleam in the spy’s smile too much: “I would not call it an order exactly, but I believe we may have a shared interest in finding Vernon Roche.”

At that, Thaler’s expression grew more serious: “Maybe – and I assume this is what we are having a chat about?”

The witcher nodded, watching the other with a slight frown: “We are, if you don’t mind. Meara’s greetings, by the way.”

“Hah, that southern cunt,” the Temerian spat fondly, “Have not seen him for a while, tell him he owes me big.”

Geralt rolled his eyes: “I will, but let us return to topic. What do you know about the ambush on the queen’s entourage, and the disappearance of Roche.”

Thaler raised his hands in mock defeat: “Oh well, if you ask me so nicely, your Highness. On the ambush: likely as much as you. It happened near the Mahakam pass, on Rivian territory, just south of Mount Carbon. Not a very nice place these days. Everything that the Knight Order of the Flaming Rose has swept out of lower Aedirn is flushed through there: dispossessed farmers, criminals, prostitutes, what have you. The whole throng of misery. Mostly nonhuman, mostly elves. Some of them go to the mountains, where the dwarves have work for them. The peasants try to make it to Dol Blathanna or Angren, and then further south. Better soils, better weather. As for the criminals? Well, they stick to the woods and take what they can get.” Thaler took a swallow of his beer. “But we did not think those motherfuckers were brave or stupid enough to attack a highly armed convoy, such as that of the queen. Guess we were wrong.” He pulled a face.

“But they did not attack the queen much, did they?” the witcher probed.

Thaler have him a long, searching stare: “No, they did not seem to try very hard. Which makes it all the more surprising that they did not squirrel away from our dear commander. Roche, for all the shit you might say about him and be spot on, is not a wuss. Neither are the soldiers who followed him that day. It would have taken some force to knock them about, more force than I would expect from a bedraggled bunch of squirrels and other scum in those woods.”

“I found a body, left by the road with a nice big banner hanging over her,” Geralt shared his news, and Thaler whistled.

“Now I am growing to appreciate you sticking your nose in. What else?” he asked, leaning backwards and folding his arms in expectation.

The witcher summarised: “Poison. Something knocked her out. She was tied up later, used as a target for some shooting practice. Cheap elven arrows. Most of her gear was gone.”

“Playful squirrels, then?” the spy asked, tilting his head with a mean grin.

“Or somebody who is trying to make it look that way. In any case, they did not just want to kill the soldiers,” Geralt acknowledged, “Which is why I am here. Who else could benefit from getting rid of Roche?”

Thaler’s face changed instantly: “Not here”, he grunted, and threw a few coins onto the table, before he made a fast departure towards the doors. They did not talk as they walked back to his house. Only when the heavy front door had closed behind them, did the master spy speak.

“Drink?” Geralt agreed, and they sat by the cold hearth. An igni took care of that.

“So,” the old spy huffed, stretching his hands towards the growing warmth, “you want to dig around in the dirty laundry of Vizima’s court, yes? They are a bunch of blood-thirsty wolves – no offence intended. Are you sure?” At Geralt’s complacent smile, Thaler frowned. “Very well, as he pleases. I’ll make it simple: Anaïs is a sweet young lady, who cares about her country, but she is not particularly bright, and easily influenced. Above all by people she likes, like our dear old friend Vernon Roche. That has opened the backdoor for Emperor Voorhis into the mind of our dear queen. Now, there are people who share his ideas about civilising the North, and there are those, here in Temeria and elsewhere, who think that _civilisation_ is a pretty word for Nilfgaardian supremacy, the silk glove of open trade over the steel fist Voorhis intends to ram up the arses of the Northern Kingdoms. And after Emhyr already had his steel-pointed boot up there, we are feeling just a little bit sore.”

Geralt made a face, and Thaler scoffed.

“Please don’t tell me you are becoming polite these days. As I was saying, Roche is a man who has made a long fucking list of enemies in his life, and he is getting better at it every season. So if you are asking me if I know which particular friend of his invited him for poisoned tea, the answer is no, I don’t know.”

The witcher frowned: “And if I told you that this friend has made demands on the emperor, against which Roche will be released, could that help you to narrow it down?”

“Possibly,” the old spy frowned.

“The demand is to exempt elves from the land reform Voorhis is planning. They should instead receive the right to land as collective property, the right to herd and hunt as they please, irrespective of human borders or property claims.”

“Ha!” Thaler laughed, “That is the demand the squirrels have made for a century. As if any sensible ruler would ever give them that. An angry mob of nobles and merchants, for once united, would burn down their palaces.”

“So do you think the Scoia’tael are behind the ambush after all?” Geralt wondered, “They certainly have reason to dislike Roche.”

Thaler tilted his head from side to side: “If they did, they got a lot more daring than they were. What I would like to know, though, is why on earth they thought Roche a better hostage than Anaïs. Do they find her convenient as a ruler? What do they need the queen for, if they sent the demands to the emperor?”

“Unless somebody else is behind the Scoia’tael?” Geralt finished the line of thought.

Thaler grinned with a mean glint to his eyes: “How difficult can it be to buy a bunch of starving squirrels in winter, hm?”

 

 

 


	3. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for all the kudos!!!

_19 th Yule, 1286, Mount Carbon_

 

Devlin aep Meara was a man of many faces, who maintained a wide circle of acquaintances all over the continent and beyond. Where friendship, a rare relation indeed, did not suffice to uphold good conversation, he had to avail himself to other mechanisms. Appearing at the foundries of Mount Carbon as a rich Nilfgaardian trader held the current advantage of making the dwarves scurry to provide him with drink and food, seeking to please the man of whom they expected good business. A second advantage lay in the fact that his old friend Golan Vivaldi, upon recognising Meara, felt the timely compulsion to share that meal with him, behind a pair of heavily guarded and thick oak doors.

“My dear old friend,” Devlin greeted him politely, “sit with me?” The elderly dwarf squinted at him with a twitchy eye, and sat. Wine was poured out, and Devlin fixed the other over the rim of his goblet, raised in a toast: “To the Empire.”

“To the Empire,” Vivaldi repeated with a gravelly voice.

He let the dwarf fidget for a while.

Eventually, Golan began to prattle: “May I, that is, inquire to the cause of your esteemed presence at the mountain?”

Meara smiled thinly: “Business, as I am sure you can imagine. I am looking for a rather precious jewel, to please my Emperor. A blue one, as per his request, which appears to have been misplaced around these parts. You would not happen to know anything about that?”

Golan swallowed, his brow shiny: “Would I – how would I know about such a – a jewel?” he stuttered, scratching his beard.

Devlin darkened his frown with every useless excuse the dwarf blathered about: “Vivaldi, my dear friend, and good citizen of our Empire. Surely, between the two of us, you do remember that little deal between the former Emperor and your dear brother in Novigrad. Your newest ... shipping business towards Cintra and Nazair, and the convoys between Aedirn and Dol Blathanna, no? Was that not very generous?”

The dwarf cleared his throat: “There is that, of course. Very generous. How could one forget? The issue is just, really a small matter, but … since the abdication we have not exactly been reassured of the continuity of these arrangements, and there has been some upheaval at the borders recently.”

“Then let me assure you and your brother,” Devlin smiled kindly, “that his Excellency would have advised his Majesty and her Majesty to uphold all agreements made in the past. Unfortunately,” he paused, “it appears that your business partners have broken those agreements recently, and in rather spectacular fashion. A cessation of hostilities by the Scoia’tael was an explicit condition of that deal. Would you care to enlighten me, as their Majesties emissary, how in the name of the Golden Sun you could fail to prevent this latest escalation?”

He watched dispassionately as Golan Vivaldi fought to control a coughing fit, dabbing his sweaty forehead desperately.

“With our utmost apologies, utmost apologies,” the dwarf begged, “Their Majesties may consider to treat my family with mercy. We were caught by surprise, just as the queen’s convoy, by the elves’ betrayal. Be assured that we are already doing everything to minimise the damage and locate the missing men, first of course Commander Roche.” He stopped, searching for words.

“And what have you discovered so far?” Devlin pressed him, dark-faced.

“It-it appears that despite their short resources, some of the elder commanders of the Scoia’tael have condemned the cooperation of the local units with our endeavours. They have begun to consider the work we offer refugees here in Mahakam, and further beyond the Yaruga a form – if you will excuse me for using their language – a form of slavery and abuse, rather than as the charitable act we conceive of our work to move elves out of Aedirn. They see the freedom Emperor Voorhis’ reforms will bring to the people of the North as an act of dispossession, an eviction from their homes. My brother and I have tried to explain to them that a release from the feudal bonds of serfdom will benefit their situation. That allowing peasants to buy their land off their lords, irrespective of title or status, will allow all races to purchase land or work in trade or manufacture for whom they please. But-but the leaders have implanted in the heads of their followers the idea that a release from feudal duty will impoverish those who lose the right to inhabit the land of their lords, make them homeless and destitute when they cannot afford to buy land, or find employment with another landowner or guild.” Vivaldi faltered. “You see?”

“Ah.” Devlin replied vaguely, “So they do not consider the services your business brings to those homeless masses a relief?”

Vivaldi shrugged: “A relief mayhap, but one under – my apologies – the yoke of d’hoine merchants and manufacturers. A _Nilfgaardian Vrihedd_ , they call it in mockery. In particular the traditionalists among the elves oppose the idea of land for sale, as by their ancient custom they would consider land a common property, for all to share. The idea of purchasable land offends them. Obviously, this position is ridiculous in a civilised world, but… well, that is what they believe.”

Devlin sighed: “And who are those elder leaders, to whom you attribute such troublesome attitudes?”

Vivaldi swallowed, and whispered two names.

Devlin smiled, making to stand and offering Golan his hand to shake: “Always a pleasure to do business with you, Vivaldi. Their Majesties appreciate your commitment. Just one last question: Where would I find those individuals you just mentioned?”

~*~

_19 th Yule, later in the evening_

Geralt had left Thaler’s house with a heavy feeling in his guts. Somehow, he thought, that encounter had left him feeling cold. The sleet that just started to come down on the town did nothing to alleviate the feeling, so he squeezed against a house wall to avoid the downpour and consider his options to find an inn for the night. Seeking to reach the Hairy Bear for a drink before bed, and perhaps out of a stubbornness to relive his copperless past, he made it to the slums. His trot through the mud, rushing from cover to cover to avoid the sleet, made him share space with half a dozen whores, who flashed their smiles and naked flesh at him. He remembered Carmen, all those years ago. Surely she was already old or dead. Looking back from the doorway of the Hairy Bear, he pondered the wink of the last pretty redhead. She had reminded him of Triss, and even a year earlier he may have returned her smile and gone with her. But now, as he hastily made way for a haggard blackhead and her drunk client stumbling out of the inn, his face remained frozen. The redhead was still pretty, and he still felt drawn towards the easy and fleeting pleasure. But truly, he could not even imagine touching her. Not when his balls had been left in the south, cradled vulnerably in the manicured hands of an amber-eyed, unforgiving man.

The witcher pushed open the ramshackle door forcefully to cope with the pang of longing that ran him through the chest, and stepped into the taproom. It was even grittier than he remembered, and the smell made him almost nauseous. Unwashed flesh, stale ale, and a mixture of mould, faeces, and something rotten. He flared his nostrils, exhaling deeply, and got a vodka from the barmaid. It was piss-poor quality, and burned like fire. At least the last sensation was welcome. He gazed around the room, getting a sense of the customers, some of which eyed him warily. He finished the evening with a brawl and more drink, before he swayed back through the slums past the brothel. Some scoundrels followed him for a bit, but disappeared in the shadows eventually. The guards by the gate to the trader’s quarter refused to let him pass until he paid them a ridiculous bribe. He could not entirely remember the way to the New Narakort, just being ushered into a room as quickly as possible. He was horribly drunk, in the way that promised headaches even for a witcher. The bed was cold.

“Miss you already, stupid…” he muttered into the coarse linen of the pillow. He tried to meditate, reach out, but his mind was all fuzzy.

~*~

_The rough beauty of the isles sent a thrill to his soul, as he slowly walked down the coast path towards their house. A cockatrice flew over the hills in the distance ahead, carrying a cow. He paid it no heed, the steel and silver swords long resting in a chest under the bed. It was Ciri’s contract. He only carried a fishing rod these days, and a bucket with a large golden plaice to be had for dinner. Up the short path, Emhyr was waiting for him, sitting on a stone bench below the tree where Ciri’s swing still hung. The man gave him a curious smile, rising from his seat, and loftily walking over in his fine woollen tunic and trousers. Geralt sat the bucket down to embrace and kiss him, burying his nose in the smell of clean fabric. They kissed some more, lost in time, until he led Emhyr into the small house and up to his bedroom under the roof, to make the best of the time Ciri was not home._

_They gently peeled each other's clothes off, dropping them on the wooden floor, before they stretched out on the furs of their bed. Holding each other close, they nuzzled and caressed until their want was greater than their patience. Breathlessly, they sought friction between each other, rubbing their bodies together. It was not enough._

_Then, with a sudden and loud thump, the roof shook and burst, and a dead cow landed on the bed from which Geralt had just rolled them. Above, the cockatrice called shrilly, diving down on them. There was no time to dig out his swords from underneath the collapsed bed and carcass. Emhyr yelled when the beast dove down on them, and Geralt threw himself above his lover, when-_

He hit the ground beside the bed hard, his legs tangled in the blanket and cock painfully hard. Cursing, he got himself out of the sheets and sat on the bed. Staring down at his tented underwear, he lay back with a groan and took himself in hand. Thinking back to the earlier part of the dream, he closed his eyes.

_The furs of the bed would tickle his skin, while Emhyr straddled him to lean down for another kiss. He would let his hands slide over the smooth tanned skin, cupping his buttocks as the emperor would lower himself onto his cock. Staring into the amber eyes, he would thrust into the narrow heat, wrapping his hands around his lover’s hips to urge him on. Emhyr would ride him, face slack in pleasure, mouth a little open. He would whimper, seeking to touch his cock, which Geralt would deny him. Fucking him more deeply, he would make the emperor come on his cock alone, watch him arch his back and spurt thick streams of come into the air. Then he would fill him, too, with his pleasure, his devotion. He would hold him close, and kiss him, and whisper sweet nothings into his ear._

Opening his eyes, Geralt did not bother to peer down at his stained hand. Instead he simply went over to the bowl and jug to wash his hands and privates. Standing alone in the cooling room, where the fire had gone out some time ago, he felt strangely lonely. _Home_ , he thought, in awed and frightened revelation: he wished to go home.

 

 


	4. Three Rivers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tair Afon: welsh, three rivers

_On the river road between Hagge and Flotsam, 23 st Yule 1286_

 

Chireadan spat on the ground, twisting his gaze away from the d’hoine and the vatt’ghern. The dwarf had tasked him to guide the two men to their leaders. When Chireadan had denied him, he had gotten angry, angry enough to threaten him with the end of their cooperation. The elf knew his brothers could not afford to lose the money, so he had followed Golan’s order – for the time being.

The stupid d’hoine was staring a hole into the elf’s back, his horse walking behind the one they had given the elf. It was an unexpected luxury. There were no horses left to ride where they were going, but the d’hoine would learn that soon enough. As for the vatt’ghern… Chireadan felt a slight unease as he surreptitiously glanced towards the man riding ahead of him. He had heard the legends of the White Wolf, whom he had briefly encountered at the lake shores, back then before the second Nilfgaardian war. His leader knew him better, and occasionally Geralt of Rivia’s name had fallen from the mouth of the elder Scoia’tael: sometimes with annoyance, sometimes with respect, perhaps even fondness.

Their journey had begun at Mount Carbon, from where the d’hoine and he had gone towards Carreas to meet the vatt’ghern. As he had explained to them, taking the southern route into Aedirn was too dangerous. Knights of the Flaming Rose searched the streets, Rivian and Temerian patrols had been doubled. His brethren had long since escaped to saver areas, better places to lay low and still guide the refugees towards the ships and across the borders. For every able person, Vivaldi paid them meagre, but essential coin – every little bit was put into their cause. In the winter, Chireadan frowned, that meant survival more than anything else. They had no resources to keep their fleeing brethren alive. The deal with the dwarf was distasteful, but without alternative. Until recently, when fate – it seemed – had for once smiled their way, and they had caught the blue-striped demons. Roche was finally paying for everything he had done to them. Only why the vatt’ghern cared – that Chireadan did not understand. His leader would know, he thought, taking another weary step down the broad d’hoine road the White Flame had carved into the earth of the country. One day, he thought, he would like to tear out every single stone and throw them back over the Yaruga. Kaer’zer Emhyr had betrayed the elves. There was nothing to expect from Nilfgaard. His leaders had learned that the hard way. The only language d’hoine understood was force.

~*~

Their little procession had made the journey all the way to the Pontar, just north of Hagge. The road led unerringly along the bank, crossing settlement after settlement. Geralt was astounded how much the area had changed in the last decade. When he had travelled in these parts the last time, the road had been a dirt path, half of the villages had not existed. Yet by the time they had reached the outskirts of the forests that marked the borderland to Aedirn, things began to deteriorate. At first it had only been the shape of the houses. Freshly painted walls had ever more often turned into crumbling mortar and brittle wood. Thatched roofs had turned from strong brown to faded grey. Livestock around the cottages had become scarcer and thinner, just like the people.

When the road ended a few miles short of Flotsam, the last town before the border, Geralt felt as if he had made a journey back in time. The town was surrounded by the same old wall. Only the banners flying limply from the gates now showed the lilies and the sun. The yard of the garrison was frequented by grim-looking men, who looked more like mercenaries than soldiers. Geralt averted his gaze too slowly. Already, three men were glaring his way, or rather towards the elf in their company. Instead of waiting for the tension to escalate, the witcher urged on his horse and led his companions towards the inn. It took him a while to recognise the woman at the bar as Margot. She had aged well, and by the tone in which she commandeered the girls around, she was still in charge of the establishment.

“Geralt of Rivia?” she wondered, shaking her head, “What takes you back here after all these years? Another Kayran to slay?”

“Not quite, thankfully,” he gave her a wry grin, “though it is business that takes me here.”

She gave the elf behind him a very pointed glance, and then looked back to Geralt: “I see. Meeting old friends?”

“Maybe,” he shrugged with a vague smile.

She frowned, then leaned closer: “This is not a good time to be too friendly with the elves, if you don’t mind some advice. Things have been happening, and these days, people are a little tense.”

“Such as?” he cocked his head.

“Trade is bad these days. Have you come from downstream, or upstream?” she asked.

“Downstream.”

“Then you have not seen the new harbour town they built on the triangle of the rivers, on the side that belongs to Aedirn: Tair’afon. Nilfgaardian merchants, they just raised a whole new town out of the ground. With a nice big harbour, and warehouses, and everything. What comes down the rivers Lixela and Dyfne from Kaedwen and Aedirn, the Pontar from Loc Muinne, or even all the way from Dol Blathanna, all the goods are traded there now. Only small merchants still come to Flotsam, and even those are driven away by the rouge elves south of the river. The northern bank is safer, what with the Nilfgaardian soldiers stationed there since the last two years.”

Geralt nodded in sympathy: “Tough times for Flotsam, then? Who is in charge these days?”

“Fenrik. He is alright, as long as you keep out of his way. Not doing any good, not doing any harm.” She huffed, and stepped away: “Do you want a drink, a room, a girl?”

“I’ll take the first, but I must decline the others.” They toasted over a finger of rye. After swallowing the last dreg, he nodded his farewells. “One last question,” he reconsidered, turning to Margot again, “Is there someone here who will deliver a letter to the commander of the Nilfgaardian soldiers in Tair’afon?”

~*~

_Simultaneously in the Capital of Nilfgaard:_

Morvran stared out of the window of his parlour, unseeing. He was lost in thought, finding no beauty in the cold sunlight sparkling on the Alba, visible from all rooms on this side of his wing of the palace. When he had moved into his chambers, the view had been the first thing to find his appreciation. Now the vivid blues all seemed grey to him. No word had come from the witcher in the last days, nor had Meara reported anything since they had left Flotsam. Wherever they were, whatever was happening – he suspected he would not know until it was already over.

Somebody opened the door in his back, despite his orders to be left alone. It was Cirilla. His wife gave him a small smile, carrying a bottle of lemonade. He returned her smile weakly, and sat with her for a while. She asked about his day, and absentmindedly he recounted his work with the legal scholars to finalise the new code for land purchase in Aedirn. Everything needed to be ready for the summit later in spring, when the Northern rulers and they would meet in Vengerberg to celebrate the crowning of Vermuellen as the new king of Aedirn. Without much enthusiasm, he listened to her recounting a long day with Edna, learning about the organisation of the followers of the Eternal Fire, and their political clout. Cirilla had become interested in their history since the Lodge had turned her attention to the nonhumans of the North. He thought her engagement interesting. She perceived of the world in terms of the common people that were foreign to him. He tried to appreciate her view, even if it occasionally eluded him.

In moments such as these, he missed Roche not only as a friend, but as a political equal. His insight, and perhaps his pragmatic efficiency, bordering on rudeness as often as on ruthlessness, were qualities he missed in a conversation partner these days. Only half-heartedly did he listen to Cirilla recounting her trip into town, to visit the hospital and a public school. He felt amused briefly by her enthusiasm for the charitable works that supported the Nilfgaardian poor, the sick, the orphans. At some point he must have become distracted to the extent that she noticed.

“There is something I wanted to tell you…” she muttered, biting her lip.

“Can it wait until tomorrow?” he asked wearily, aware of his own inability to concentrate.

When she excused herself abruptly and with an equally apologetic and angry face, closing the door behind her, he covered his face with his hands. He felt so incredibly tired, he simply could not find the energy to play the dedicated husband. He just wished for the Aedirn question to be resolved as fast as possible. That – and for his friend to be returned to him safely.

 

 

 


	5. The Emperor's Treasure

_24 th Yule, 1286_

 

The elven ruins of the bridge were beautiful, even after all those centuries, white fragments against the naked branches of the trees and the icy blue of the river. Only the pillars were left of the bridge where they steered their little skiff to shore. Where once the road must have gone on from the bridge, trees had grown tall. Chireadan, their ill-tempered guide, whistled a few times, and from those trees several figures emerged. The elven archers looked ragged, squinting suspiciously from sunken eyes over haggard cheekbones. They exchanged a few lines in a code he could not decipher. After a number of glares and sharp words, one of them huffed and nodded at Chireadan.

“You will wait here,” the elf who seemed to be in charge said sharply, “only the vatt’ghern.”

Devlin did not like any of this one bit: “Geralt?”

The witcher took him aside a few steps and whispered: “Row back to Tair’afon, immediately. Alert the garrison, and alert Vattier. If I am not back by nightfall,” Geralt made a face, “Go, and stick to the other river bank, out of arrow range.”

“We both should go back,” Devlin hissed back quietly, “this is a foolish risk. If anything happens to you, I would be lucky to die here with you rather than bring those news to Nilfgaard!”

But Geralt only rolled his eyes: “Their leader is Iorveth. He owes me his life. You may not think much of them, but even the Scoia’tael have honour. Iorveth does. I will be fine.” Devlin could only shake his head, but the witcher gave him a firm stare: “Go, and call for backup. I will leave a trail you can follow.”

Devlin sighed in exasperation.

“Do I have to make it an order?” the witcher asked dangerously, and the spy swallowed. Prince of Nilfgaard, he reminded himself.

“As you wish, your Highness,” he muttered faintly, and made his way back to the boat. The witcher remained on the bank until his skiff was out of sight. Keeping to the far bank, Devlin began to row was fast as he humanly could.

~*~

Once the skiff had disappeared around the river bend, the archers led him into the trees, for a good white, until they hit upon some almost invisible ruins of what was once a large building. They were so crumbled and overgrown with brambles that the witcher almost missed them. Discretely, he dropped a little black pebble with a rune engraved on it. Taking note of the structure of the environment as the group moved on, Geralt realised that they were crossing what must at some point have been a large estate or village. The lines and occasional bits of ruin seemed like pieces of a larger picture. At some point, their new companions lifted a large patch of undergrowth, and revealed a trapdoor.

“Down there,” the leader pointed out the obvious, “Weapons stay up.” He smiled meanly when Geralt handed over his swords. While climbing into the dark opening, Geralt slipped another pebble into a crack in the rock near the opening. The ladder was not long, leading into a basement of sorts, but from there an opening led into a cave, a large cave, as Geralt began to realise. A whole cave-system, by the looks of it. He followed the leader, who carried a torch, into the dimness. Here and there, they encountered more torches and fires, more elves, most of them looking grim and skinny. Some were armed; others just children.

“Through there,” the guide eventually muttered as they walked towards a rough wall, separating off the next bit of cave. The narrow doorway was shut only with a heavy blanket, and Geralt could make out faint voiced beyond. He had considered on the way how to best approach Iorveth, so when he stepped through and searched for the familiar bandana, he was momentarily surprised not to find it. Instead, another elf addressed him, and the voice was surprisingly familiar.

“Vatt’ghern,” the dark-haired warrior said loudly, “it has been a long time since we last saw each other, has it not? I marvel,” Yaevinn laughed softly, “at how much has changed since then.”

Geralt whirled around, assessing his old friend: “Quite something, I imagine. I am glad to see you in one piece, after all this time. How has life treated you?”

Yaevinn’s silken black hair swayed as he turned his face into the light of a torch: “Like always, vatt’ghern. Like scum your d’hoine friends seek to wash of the earth.” His face, now more visible, was as haggard as that of his men. A swirling scar covered his cheek. Recognising the pattern, a feeling of dread began to settle in the witcher’s guts. Yaevinn’s dark eyes gleamed dangerously as he began to circle his guest. “I have heard much in changing in the great big world around us, but here,” he pointed his finger down, “flotsam is still flotsam. Here,” he pushed his face close to Geralt’s, drawing his extended finger to his own temple, “nothing changes. The war always goes on.”

Geralt relaxed his shoulders pointedly, leaning back a little, while standing his ground with the feet: “I have heard you caught up with the Temerian’s on the Carreas pass. A bold move, some might say.”

Yaevinn gave him a dark smile: “A bold move indeed, but a very useful one. Drink?”

Geralt accepted the goblet and toasted briefly, taking a sip of the fragrant herbal schnapps. Then tilted his head to the side, crossing his arms: “Some would also say that wasting men on capturing other men, instead of resources, is a foolish move. So is dealing with evil spirits.”

The elf smiled widely, baring his teeth in an expression that gradually transformed into anger: “Do not mock me, Geralt,” he said coldly.

“Then may I ask what is in that manoeuvre for you?” the witcher raised his eyebrows, “Is revenge on Roche enough to justify this?” He took another sip of his drink, waiting.

Yaevinn frowned: “Revenge?” His eyes narrowed. “Roche deserves to die slowly and in agony for what he has done to my people. In fact, he does not deserve to die at all. He deserves to _suffer_ ,” the elf emphasised, stepping further into the witcher’s space. Then he caught himself, and stepped back with a mad laugh: “But my kind has learned to be patient. Our catch, most imminently, is treasured by the emperor, and because he knows that, and we know that, he will negotiate with us for his continued well-being – or,” Yaevinn added with a wolfish grin, “fate may be kind after all, and Vernon Roche will get what he deserves.”

Geralt raised both eyebrows at this: “And what on earth makes you think that Voorhis will treat with terrorists, for _one_ man?” A flinch went through the elf’s face. “After all,” the witcher added, “Anaïs has already signed the new treaties for Aedirn, and Voorhis himself can now rely on the full force of Nilfgaard to implement his plans. He does not need Temeria’s soldiers anymore.”

The witcher observed the elf closely, who had averted his face. The light in the cave flickered, and the witcher blinked.

“What tells me that the black dogs will negotiate, Geralt,” Yaevinn replied after a moment, turning back into the light, and Geralt did not like the complacent look on his face, “is your presence here. As for the rest,” the elf’s smile grew saccharine, “if a Nilfgaardian cur aids or abandons his lover here, it makes no difference to me. I will have made our voice heard, one way or another.”

At those words, the witcher froze: “What makes you think” he broke off, cursing his unchecked reaction. There was no possible way the elf could know about them. The light suddenly seemed to sway around him, and he cursed. The drink must have been spiked, he thought, stumbling backwards as his legs gave out under him.

“A little bird sung songs to me,” Yaevinn smiled darkly, crouching down and lowering the witcher to the ground, “even down here, in the dirt, one can be surprised by the bountiful fauna.” His voice seemed to come from far away. “Should I tell Chireadan to give your love to Yennefer, when he writes to her?”

Then everything went dark.

~*~

 

When the beacon on his secretary’s desk began to vibrate in specific patterns, Vattier began to expect the worst. The message was soon encoded:

_3 miles east Flotsam, extraction required, Wolf caught in Squirrel den. DaM Tair’afon port, awaiting orders._

With a serious and longwinded curse in a language to old and otherworldly for any human to know, Vattier swept out of his office and towards the high priest’s new parlour. Protocol dictated he should inform the emperor first, but protocol was the last concern of the chief of intelligence right then. Morvran was buried under a library worth of policies for the North anyhow. Emhyr would know what to do, who to send, whose life to make a living hell to get things done a.s.a.p. - and simply be quicker than the new man on the throne. At the end of the day, Vattier allowed himself to acknowledge, running to Emhyr first was a deeply ingrained habit, and the court liked its habits. He also preferred not to end up on the wrong side of a powerful man whose lover was under threat. Now _that_ development had surprised even the vampire, but the smells that lingered on the two men left little room for interpretation - nor Emhyr’s _very_ carefully controlled face as the emperor had sent the witcher north.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The wiki hints that Chireadan was in love with Yennefer at some point. (Not relevant for plot here)


	6. The Ties that Bind

_24 th Yule, 1286 – early evening_

 

_He was running through the halls of the palace of Cintra, looking for her, calling her name. But Cirilla was not to be found. She was not on the ship, not in the palace. Not in the private garden, the bathhouse, nor in his childhood chambers he had given her when she came to visit him under the curse. He searched the ship again, when his eyes fell on the ruined elven tower over the cliff. The eye of the storm centred there, and the portal was once more open in the sky. He ran, raced his horse, trying to reach her. But as in the reports of that fateful day, a barrier obstructed his path. Beyond the shimmering light of the barrier, he found not his child, but the shining outlines of the witcher._

_“Emhyr?” the man called, and the emperor leaned his weight into the strong wind to totter closer. “Emhyr, I am in trouble… can you hear me?”_

_“Geralt?” he yelled against the storm. The snow pouring from the tear in the sky got worse. Everything was white. He could not see…_

_“Find me… black pebbles. Caves. Flotsam.” Geralt’s voice echoed._

“Geralt?” he mumbled, awakening with a gasp. Disoriented for a second, he felt is pulse race wildly. Then the memory came back. Between tasks, he had taken a brief nap on the settee by the window. Slowly rising to sit, Emhyr took a few calming breaths, when suddenly somebody pounded on the door loudly.

“Your Excellency?” Rideaux’ voice was muffled by the wood, but to Emhyr’s ear the master spy sounded quite anxious. Immediately, his pulse picked back up.

“Come in,” he called, remaining seated while the door opened and was quickly closed again behind the man.

“We have a situation regarding the witcher,” Rideaux said with a very grave voice.

His heart stopped.

~*~

She stared outside from behind the locked doors of the balcony, yet remained blind to the view across the city. Her sole attention was directed to the silhouette of the palace in the distance. Emhyr. Geralt. Ciri – the one to tied them all together. Those who, more than anyone else in the world, should have been her family. The people she had tried to protect at all costs – no. She needed to stop lying to herself. The sorceress had accepted the risk to each and every single one of them – a mortal risk – to reach her own goals. She had bent the world to her will trying to reconcile the impossible: political necessity, her own well-being, their well-being, and the accursed demands of the man in the mirror. The tall standing mirror still stood, untouched and unmoved, in the middle of her study. She turned to give it a baleful stare. How she hated that mirror, that constant reminder of being tied to a will other than her own. She hated the mirror even more than the curling brand she concealed under a glamour.

A copy of the _The Law of Three_ was lying on the floor beneath it. She had perused the treatise for research. Like a loan shark, a witch was always paid triple the worth of her gift. O’Dim appeared to abide by the same principle. Three services he had won from her, in exchange for a single wish. But then, she had been desperate and out of options. Three wishes some other unfortunate souls had asked from Master Mirror were her obligation to fulfil; that was the pact. Otherwise, he would have her soul. A rather distasteful thought. After years of silence, she had almost hoped the bargain had been forgotten, when O’Dim appeared in her mirror one day in Lammas, 1286, ominous and impossible to deny. There was no way to break the pact.

Only seconds after the being had left her with his first demand, Fringilla Vigo had contacted her about the sudden appearance of Keira Metz and the false Cirilla in her house. Bending to the terms of the pact, Yennefer had helped the furious empress have her revenge on the man who had burned her home and stolen her identity. It had taken Yennefer’s entire intellectual and rhetorical capacities to devise a plan that was likely to protect the emperor from irreversible damage, yet still fulfilled the empress’ wish for vengeance. When to her dismay Keira involved the whole Lodge, the plan had to adapt. She had never wanted to endanger Ciri – no. No. Yennefer had no right to deny it: like all of her sisters, she had seen the need to challenge Morvran Voorhis’s ascension, for the sake of mages and nonhumans in Aedirn, and the wider North. Ciri was the obvious solution. Within the limits of Yen’s own ability to devise a plan, she had been the only solution. Yennefer could have kept her daughter’s survival a secret. But instead, she had led Ciri into the den of the lions. And every inch of her that was not a mother believed it was the right thing to do for the Empire, for the mages, for the future. She had imagined a great queen, led by the wise council of her court mage and mother. Time, well-meaning, and necessity would have healed the wounds of betrayal. Never would she have imagined her daughter choosing the general as her husband. Never would she have forced a man upon her. Now they both suffered from the fruits Yennefer’s betrayal had sown: Ciri pressed into the role of empress she never wanted, and furthermore wed to a man she did not know; Yennefer knowing she was to blame for her child’s misfortune. For all good intentions were worth, the sorceress had intended to relive Ciri at least of the second burden. But the general had survived the storm; and the plan had unravelled from there.

Balefully, the sorceress stared at the reflecting glass that sat so still and innocently.

The plan had unravelled when he survived the storm. No – it had unravelled even earlier, when O’Dim had demanded the second service: for her to help the seer, Corinne Tilly, to keep her occupied house. Yennefer had meant to leave her money in exchange for some random advice about Ithlinne’s prophecy, when the oneiromancer had unexpectedly inspired her. Or – to be more precise – she had realised the potential of using the godling’s powers to keep Emhyr from messing up her carefully laid plans by abdicating too early. His stubbornness to keep Ciri away from the throne had almost made the sorceress give in to despair – guilt, she amended her thought, for the sake of honesty. Guilt. Drawing Geralt into the curse would not have been necessary to fulfil Becca’s wish, but still she had coerced the seer into doing just that: A few promising visions, some basic training in how to attach to the dreams of another, a little hypnosis to leave the command deep within the witcher’s consciousness: reach the emperor’s mind, as quickly as possible. And Geralt, Yennefer chuckled to herself helplessly, had performed outstandingly. The trap had been laid, and it had sprung. If only, she lamented, Ciri had not lost trust in her. If only the stubborn girl had not run off to the general without a word!

In the end, the Lodge’s plan had failed horribly. Ciri was empress, but under the control of her father and soon-to-be husband. The High Command had proven a fair weather friend, willing to sacrifice the sorceresses as a punching bag for the recovered emperor and his successor to vent their ire on. Fringilla was dead on the Tribunal’s express order of execution, carried out by her own hand before Vattier could burn her sister in public. And yet, the remaining members of the Lodge had had nothing better to do than turn against her. When she had been released from the artefact compression, Yennefer had thought her end was near. She had expected the executioner, Emhyr, or even Geralt in her cell below the palace – but it had been Ciri to visit her. And her child had bestowed mercy. The sorceress knew that she did not deserve forgiveness. She could not bear to tell her child the full truth, but she had revealed what she could. She had pleaded regret, and accepted terms, and survived.

Looking at the mirror, she saw her own haggard face. The third service O’Dim had demanded of her was still in the making; and unlike before, her absence from the field made it impossible to adjust the plan as things went ahead. All she could do now was hope and wait that her collaborators would succeed.

~*~

“Immediately,” Vattier said into the xenovox, barely waiting for the sorceress’ assent before he switched off the device. “Cynthia is on her way,” the master spy informed the assembled. The emperor sighed deeply, pacing in front of the fireplace of his wife’s parlour. The empress was standing by the window, arms folded over her chest and looking absolutely furious. Once more, she was mirroring her father’s pose, the vampire could not help but notice. Going by the high priest’s expression, heads were about to roll fast.

“Is everything ready for your departure?” Emhyr inquired in a deceptively soft voice.

Vattier nodded: “My associates have been alerted, and will arrive shortly. Once Cynthia has opened a portal, we will travel to Flotsam and make haste to locate the prince and commander,” he bowed briefly to the assembled rulers, “and we will bring them back, by any means necessary.”

“Very well,” Emhyr nodded, forehead wrinkled in deep thought, gaze stony “The regiment in Tair’afon will be at your beck and call. We will await your report at the earliest convenience. Dismissed.”

Vattier bowed, and left.

 

 


	7. Friends in High Places

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh... this chapter is gonna be sad. just saying.

_25 th Yule, 1286 – before sunrise_

 

The commander of the meagre forces stationed at Flotsam looked out of his tower window into the night. When a large flock of birds shot through the iron skies, a deep shiver ran down his spine. The cold creeping into his heart was so overpowering he suddenly scrambled up from his chair to close the shutters to keep the birds out. Only then did he exhale again.

Down by the market square, Margot peeked out of the inn’s grimy windows, observing how dusk settled all too quickly. An eerie silence seemed to swathe the town in desolation and shadows, and even the cats had dashed under the wardrobe, hissing quietly. Not a single guest was willing to leave that night, and she did not throw them out. Somehow… somehow it did not seem secure to go outside. She hoped the witcher, who had gone out the day before and not returned, was safe.

In the dark of the caves, elves huddled closer together and guards were on edge. A group of six scouts sat hidden in the trees over one of the cave entrances, silently shivering in the branches. The shadows of the nightly forest seemed to crawl, twigs turning into claws, leaves into bats, shrubs into wolves. The hoot of an owl echoed through the dark, which under the heavy clouds not a single star illuminated. Chireadan listened over his clattering teeth. The wind rustled in the trees, but there seemed to be a trace of yet another sound… a wailing, a snapping, a sudden silence that was… too silent. Carefully adjusting his weight on the thick branch of the old oak, he whistled twice, sharply. Another whistle answered, then two more. There should have been five replies. Cursing under his breath, Chireadan slunk down the trunk quietly. Slowly, he walked a circle to the tree he knew his comrade should have been sitting on. In the dark, he almost stepped on him. Kneeling fast, he checked for a pulse, but only found his hands covered in hot blood.

Four times he whistled sharply, then began to race for the trap door. He had almost reached the entrance, when he stumbled – no. Something had flung him forward. It happened so fast he barely could make sense of what was happening. Then something pressed against his neck like a vice, and the dark of the night made way for another, deeper dark.

~*~

He awoke sitting with his hands tied behind his back, leaning on an icy cold rock wall. With a shudder, Geralt moved back from the ice, wincing at the sore muscles in his back. His cheek and eye stung from the cold.

“Awake?” a familiar and truly welcome voice asked from somewhere ahead of him. The cell – he assumed that he had been locked in one – was dark, yet after a moment at least the contours became a little clearer. The space he was confined in could not be larger than two by two yards, a dead end in the rock, barred off on one side by a solid wooden wall. Dim firelight shone through the crack under a door. On the floor the witcher felt the thick fuzz of old furs. Moving his hands slightly, he encountered an iron chain that connected the manacles on his wrists to a ring in the rock. The metal of that chain seemed rather rusty though, if his sense of touch did not fool him. He put his weight against the chain, and pulled a few times.

“Are you chained up as well?” he gruffly asked the other man in the cell.

“Who…?” Roche asked in confusion, “I know your voice…”

“Geralt,” Geralt huffed, resuming his work on the chain. So far, it had not given much. He took aim the best he could and twisted his fingers into an aard.

“Holy shit, what are you doing?” Roche asked in surprise, wincing at the noise of breaking stone and coughing from the cloud of dust that suddenly filled the air. The rock had come lose, and with another few pulls, the witcher felt the ring break out of the stone. Unfortunately, his hands were still tied.

“Are your hands chained up as well?” he repeated his question.

The Temerian snorted, which ended in a series of bad coughs: “Bound, ropes. That is how threatening I am these days. Good knots, unfortunately. Would you mind assisting?”

Geralt shuffled to his knees, and crawled over to his old friend. Sitting by his side, he explored the ropes with his fingers. The knots were good indeed. “This might get a little hot,” he warned the other briefly, before casting igni.

“Shit!” Roche cursed a few times under his breath, and with a whiff of burned skin he managed to tear his arms apart and away from the flame. “Damnit, Geralt, your aim could use some improvement.”

“You’re welcome. Now how do we get out of here?” the witcher replied, arduously climbing to his feet.

“The cell is pretty isolated,” the Temerian began, “and if they have not heard the commotion just now, that probably means we have the moment to ourselves. Most days, a guard comes down with food twice, but they are not due for another few hours. Can you do something about that door?”

Frowning, Geralt turned his back to the door and felt for the hinges and lock. He concentrated, then signed another aard. The wood splintered.

“Place could use some works,” he mumbled, sneaking into the cave ahead of Roche. The Temerian had armed himself with a plank from the door. With his hands still manacled, that was not really an option for Geralt. For a few breaths, they heard and saw little. Only the gleam of torchlight and a few scattered footprints gave them a sense of direction among the various cave mouths and connected grottos.

“You don’t waste much time in cells, do you?” Roche asked in a low voice as they followed the trail to what they hoped would be an exit.

“I prefer to fight my way out of them as quickly as possible, yes,” Geralt huffed, briefly reminded of their first encounter all those years ago in the service of Foltest. After the monarch had been murdered, Roche had let Geralt escape. Getting out of the La Valette dungeon had still cost a few guard’s lives, to their mutual regret. If they encountered any Scoia’tael guards now, the witcher doubted the Temerian would reprimand him for collateral damage. And of course their luck ended eventually. The trail of torches led them back into a more inhabited part of the caves. Pressing close to one wall, they extinguished the nearest torch, and crept closer to where they had seen signs of live.

“Something here is terribly wrong,” Geralt whispered in growing horror as they came closer. Mutely, Roche nodded. The Temerian’s face was pale. Nothing moved, and the smell of blood and decay clung sweetly to the stale air. Walking through the scattered bodies, they found not a single person alive. Instead, they found something else.

“No, NO!” Roche began to scream, dropping the plank and rushing up to the crumbled body of a blonde, short-haired woman. “Ves?”

With a dry swallow, Geralt averted his gaze. He had no need to check. There were only two heartbeats in that cave. The witchers eyes burned, and he blinked a few times, gaze helplessly flickering between the corpses he now knew were human. Roche’s unit. Dead before their eyes once more. Unlike Henselt, the Scoia’tael had not even had the decency to hang everyone. Passing by the bodies, the witcher found arrows wounds in various body-parts. More wrists and ankles showed rope burns. They had been used for target practice, and then discarded like broken dolls. Simply thrown aside. Walking up to the sobbing commander, Geralt could no longer keep his gaze away from the dead woman.

Ves’ face was bruised, lips split. Her clothes were torn and blood-stained. The witcher detected several broken bones without even trying.

“Those bastards…” Roche choked next to him, coughing badly. Something dark and unhinged flickered in his black eyes, “… those complete and utter bastards. Geralt?”

The witcher nodded. There was not need to ask what his friend was asking: “We need to get out of here first, though. I need my hands, and a sword.”

Roche chuckled darkly: “Steel for humans, silver for monsters – and what for these arseholes?”

“Both are for monsters”, the witcher corrected darkly, “and these ones have been asking for steel.”

The Temerian helped him stand, and ducked down once more to close his lieutenant’s eyes. There was no time to do anything else, and Ves was long gone. The tunnel sloped upward, and in the distance they could see more lights. Soon enough, voices could be heard. Somebody was yelling, then people jumped up from their sleeping places. Geralt and Roche were crouched behind a boulder, observing. The witcher only hoped that Roche had learned to keep his cool.

Then – the unexpected happened. Even for the trained eye of the witcher, the movement was so fast be barely detected it. Several of the elves in the cave ahead started screaming. A few drew arms and hit around themselves. But one after another, they fell. Once the last of the small group was down, a naked female figure crouched over them.

“What the,” the Temerian began to whisper, then coughed loudly. The being suddenly looked up and into their direction.

Sensing the prey, the Bruxa smiled toothily at them, and Geralt for a second began to reconcile himself to the idea that they would be as dead as these elves very shortly. But then the lower vampire hissed, looked back and forth a few times, before it disappeared. Listening to his own elevated heartbeat, Geralt blinked only once. Then he pushed his shoulder against Roche’s side and urged him on. They scrambled past the bodies, further down the tunnel. On the way they picked up two threadbare cloaks from the corpses and threw the hoods over their heads.  The witcher could not recall passing any of the caves before, but the longer they stumbled ahead, the clearer the footprints on the floor became. Another few tunnels in, screams began anew. People were running, shrieking in panic. When Geralt and Roche burst into their midst, the elves did not even bother with them. Armed warriors ushered the children and civilians along. In the throng of hurrying people, their escape remained undetected. Eventually, they made it out into the open of the forest, where the movement of the crowd stalled.

“This way,” Geralt hissed to Roche, and dragged his friend into a few bushes, and away from the cave mouth that opened up from a small clearing. Elves were fleeing into all directions, but they mostly seemed to follow a line of torches that were visible in the distance. Running into the other direction, Geralt stumbled over a root. He hit the ground face first, biting his teeth to supress a scream. Something sharp had torn into his cheek, and he could taste blood running over his lips. Moaning lowly, he let Roche help him up. More slowly, they began to sneak away into the darkness. Only when all lights were out of sight, and the forest lay silent and empty around them, did they dare stop and catch their breaths. The snowy forest was silent. Only a flock of ravens was croaking above them in the bare trees.

“This was easier than I anticipated. What on earth happened in there?” The Temerian’s voice was eerily neutral.

“Bruxae. A type of vampire,” Geralt filled him in, frowning, “We were extremely lucky she did not attack us, or we would both be dead.”

Roche snorted in the dark: “I’ve never been known to be lucky. Are you sure there wasn’t some purpose behind that?”

Geralt closed his eyes, and tried to think. The pain pulsing on the left side of his face made it hard to think. His gear was gone, including all potions. “I have seen vampires act with purpose only once… and I’d rather never see something like that again.”

They rested in silence a few moments more, before their fear of discovery outweighed their exhaustion. The trees were bare in winter, but thick clouds covered the stars and moon. Navigation was impossible, and neither of them had any clue where they were. Geralt was about to point out their dilemma, when the hair on his neck began to rise.

“Roche, there’s something close by!” he hissed, holding his breath to listen. A twig snapped ahead of him, and he heard a wet cough, but that was only Roche. Then it was silent again. Only the wind dragged on the bare branches of the trees. Then somebody delicately cleared their throat.

“Geralt, Commander Roche. I do not mean to startle you.”

Geralt felt his heart jump, before his mind had the chance to catch up and he recognised the voice: “Regis?”

“Quite so. I have been searching for you, with some local help,” the vampire said with a smile in his voice, “The Viscount de Rideaux requested our help to retrieve the two of you, and he will be most relieved to know that you are both alive. We should return to the garrison with haste. I believe Commander Roche should also see a healer for that cough – and Geralt, I think that wound needs stitching.” With those words, the vampire stepped around his back and carefully broke apart the manacles still tying his hands.

“Does the blood bother you?” the witcher asked while he felt his friend delicately wrench apart the iron around his wrists and drop the twisted metal rings to the ground. Gingerly massaging the scrapped skin, the witcher nodded his head in gratitude. There were few people he would have rather had at his side there and then.

“Not in the least, but if you don’t mind me saying so, your face is not going to get any prettier with another scar, and the faster we treat that cut, the better for your appearance. This way,” the vampire instructed, and walked off into the woods.

“I’ll pretend that I am not completely caught off guard by the fact that this man just found us in the middle of the woods. I assume we can trust him?” Roche commented with a huff and followed.

“Roche, this is my friend Regis. He fought with me against Vilgefortz. We found each other a second time in Toussaint, a few years back. Regis is a doctor. He runs a hospital near the capital.”

“Really?” the Temerian intoned, but wisely did not ask any further.

“Regis,” the witcher spoke lowly to the vampire, counting on their enhanced hearing, “there was a Bruxa in the caves, and elves fleeing in panic. What the hell is going on?”

For a while, Regis did not answer, but Geralt saw the vampire stand perfectly still for the blink of an eye. Then his friend sighed deeply: “Dettlaff and Orianna have gone into the caves, as a favour to Rideaux. He is – very influential in Nilfgaard, not only for humans. The regular Nilfgaardian soldiers would be at a great disadvantage against the rebels down there. It is much saver for our kind to chase the … if you will permit a terrible pun, for us to chase the squirrels out of their hideout.”

The witcher pondered that: “I thought vampires did not get involved in human matters?”

In the dark, he heard Regis lick his lips: “Not usually, no. But we both know that this changes fast when we … become emotionally involved with the situation. Do you remember the ring you found on Dettlaff’s hand, and what I told you about it?”

Geralt shook his head: “Remind me?”

“I told you back in Toussaint that a dear friend of mine had given me that ring as a reminder to lay off the blood, and respect the human and elder races as our hosts in this world. I had passed on that gift to Dettlaff after he saved my life. That friend of mine, the humanist…”

“What about him?” the witcher asked, watching Regis fidget, “Wait - Rideaux?”

“Indeed.”

That revelation gave the witcher much food for thought, and he fell silent. They marched on through the dark, until eventually the gurgling of the river became more audible. In the distance ahead, light could be seen, shining off black armour, shields, and the water of the Pontar. A few boats had been dragged half on shore. Approaching the improvised landing site, he called out to the guards to make their presence known. In response, orders were yelled, and a few soldiers came closer.

 “Excuse me,” Geralt began, and watched how the man’s eyes widened remarkably. The soldier then bowed deeply, waved at the men behind him, and immediately the shield wall opened to admit the three of them.

“Who is in command here?” Geralt asked, and a silvery-armoured man bowed deeply.

“Your Highness, I am Captain var Arlen, serving the Empire in the Tair’afon garrison. Very pleased to see your Highness returned to safety, and Commander Roche as well, of course. We were searching for you already.”

The Temerian saluted briefly: “Captain, what are your orders out here?”

Var Arlen stood straight: “I am under orders to detain all terrorists inside of the caves and let nobody escape. Several units are closing in as we speak.”

“Good,” Geralt nodded, then frowned: “There are civilians inside. Children.”

The captain blinked uncertainly: “If there is a problem, it may be best to approach the Viscount de Rideaux. He is in charge, just over there!”

Geralt regarded the clearly worried man with a last frown, and turned to follow the direction in which the captain had pointed. In an illuminated area between the trees, he found the higher vampire. Roche was already making his way over.

“Rideaux!” he called, and was discomfited to be greeted by yet another relived face.

The vampire walked towards them with open arms: “Your Highness, Commander Roche, it is good to have you back.” Coming to stand in front of him, the master spy examined the witcher carefully. “You are in need of medical attention. I will have a boat readied to take you to Tair’afon right away. Is there anything of immediate relevance to report?”

“Just make sure you get those bastards,” the Temerian spat bitterly, “they have the torture and murder a whole unit to answer for, on top of a very long history of violence.”

Rideaux lowered his face in empathy, and nodded grimly: “I’ll see to it, commander. On my honour.”

“What will happen to the civilians in those caves?” Geralt asked warily, once Roche had passed out of earshot. Rideaux gave him a slow shake of the head. The witcher’s mouth tightened: “You can’t mean to slaughter them all, can you? Children, Rideaux?”

The vampire’s eyes face softened with vague regret: “The emperor’s orders are explicit. Every elf inside these caves will be sentenced for terrorism. The magistrate of Tair’afon is raising the gallows as we speak.” When Geralt averted his gaze with a growl, the master spy held him back by the arm. “Geralt,” he whispered under his breath, “Emhyr himself is coming to Tair’afon to pass the judgment in the name of Emperor Voorhis. Speak to him, perhaps you can make them see reason.”

“I hope so,” the witcher spat, tearing himself free of Rideaux’s grip. He brushed past Regis, who gave him a mournful look in the passing. Following var Arlen’s instructions, Roche and he were ushered towards the river, escorted by at least a dozen soldiers. A large boat was ready to bring them to the garrison. At least, Geralt thought, he now knew the Bruxa had not appeared wildly. He still could not quite fathom to what lengths the vampires had gone under the emperor’s orders to retrieve them. All those bodies…

Sitting across from him on the boat, Vernon Roche gave him a very long stare, before he wiped his face tiredly. In the light of the ship’s lamps, the Temerian looked angry, filthy, and utterly exhausted - exactly how Geralt felt.

“Just tell me one thing, Geralt,” he said with a raw voice, low enough that only the witcher could hear him, “how is it that I am captured on the road, kept for ransom while my soldiers are slaughtered for fun,” his voice hitched there, “joined by a Prince of Nilfgaard, who breaks me out, and then…” he stopped, licking his lips with a desperate grimace.

“…then suddenly a huge number of elves are dead for fleeing from their hideout, chased by monsters, and the fucking army is there to put everyone under arrest?” Geralt allowed himself to guess.

Roche winced, and then slowly shook his head: “I get that you came for me – did Morvran ask you for help?”

Geralt nodded his head, watching in confusion as Roche’s eyes tore up for a second, before the commander averted his gaze quickly to cough. The witcher chuckled a little at the memory: “He was hissing like an angry cat when he got the blackmail demands. Never seen him so wild.”

“Really? And he sent a whole regiment with you to get me back?” the Temerian asked grimly, before another bout of coughing hit him.

“Heard he’s a good friend of yours these days,” the witcher offered, and the other man nodded vaguely, a blush rising to his cheeks. “Well, he seems to think so in any case,” Geralt added, not sure what to make of Roche’s reaction. “Although,” he conceded with a wince, “he did not send the soldiers with me, only Meara. But before I went with the Scoia’tael scouts to meet their leader, I asked Meara to alert everyone if I did not get back in time. I guess somebody must have panicked a little, if they sent Rideaux in person.”

Roche gave him a pointed look: “Rideaux, a first rate spy like Meara, a really strange doctor, and a regiment?”

Geralt cleared his throat in embarrassment.

“Well,” the Temerian chuckled wryly, “I reckon we both have good friends in high places these days. I’d just like to know who gave the damned squirrels the idea that I would make a better hostage than Anaïs.”

“You think they could have taken her?” Geralt inquired, his interest piqued.

The Temerian nodded: “Yes, with the tactic they used to overwhelm us. Certainly. We did not expect the poison, they had us down before we could blink.” He sighed, tapping his knee. “But what worries me most is that they knew enough about us to plan this ambush with precision. They must have put considerable resources behind it. Putting a lot of people in once place was a huge risk for them, and it’s unlike their previous strategies.”

“Hm,” the witcher considered the thought, “then why you? I understand you are the emperor’s voice in Anaïs’ ear – but who benefits?”

“You mean who would sympathise with the Scoia’tael, want to block Morvran’ influence over the queen, and know enough to blackmail the emperor?” Roche asked, shaking his head, “I’ve no bloody clue – but if I get my hands on them...”

Geralt nodded, and watched the waters pass by. Something Yaevinn had said was nagging in the back of his mind, but he could not possibly voice those thoughts to Roche.

 

 


	8. Men and Horses

_25 th Yule, 1286 - evening_

 

“Good work with the rune stones,” Meara told him as they reached port, “the scryers managed to locate you right away.” The spy had waited for them, and once Roche and Geralt made it on land, he wasted no time to guide them to the trade association’s headquarters. In the upper story hallway, they were separated, and Geralt smiled tiredly at the déjà-vu of being force-bathed and stuffed into fine clothes. The fit of the latter, at least, had improved significantly since those days in Vizima. The cut on his cheek had been stitched expertly. Rolling his eyes at the nervous doctor who tended to him, he was about to point out that he was hardly paid for his looks, when he was ushered into the adjourning room and found himself face to face with a furious-looking Emhyr.

Geralt swallowed. Somehow he had imagined their reunion differently: “I – so you, uh, came here in person? By magic?” he asked, knowing how awkward he sounded.

Emhyr raised his eyebrows minutely, his gaze wandering over the stitched cheek: “I am here to sentence a high-ranking terrorist to death on behalf of the Emperor. As for you… I can see you are alive. How fortunate.”

The witcher was stunned. Stung, even, by the blasé tone. Unsure what to say, he hesitated. Emhyr did not. With a swirl of his robes, he walked away and out of the room. For a while, Geralt just stood there, trying to comprehend what had happened. Then, emotions rolling, he pounded into the direction into which Emhyr had disappeared. On the way, he asked servants, who pointed him further to a stairwell into one of the decorative towers. His trail ended there when the guard told him the high priest did not receive any visitors by his express wishes only minutes ago.

Dejectedly, the witcher wandered down into the courtyard. He had no idea where Roche had disappeared off to, nor Regis. Finally feeling the weight of the last days crashing down on him, he sunk heavily onto a bench by a little fountain.

“You are upset,” a voice said from behind him. Looking up from where the witcher had rested his face in his hands, Geralt saw a man he did not know what to feel about under the current circumstances.

“Dettlaff,” he acknowledged briefly, “how do you fare? Is the mission complete?”

The vampire made a thoughtful expression, then sat next to him uninvited: “I am well, thank you. And yes, we have cleared the caves of terrorists. Our support to the local captain is no longer required.”

Geralt’s mouth twitched: “How many died?”

Dettlaff pondered the question, then shrugged: “I did not count, but Vattier told us the mission was successful. They have captured the leader alive, and most of his lieutenants. Many others surrendered upon their capture.”

“And do you know what will happen to them?” the witcher bit out.

“I am not very certain about human codices, but I believe they will be executed.”

There was a long stretch of silence, in which Geralt tried to shake off a growing headache. Eventually, however, it was Dettlaff how spoke again first.

“I have found your horse. He is waiting in the stable.”

“Thank you,” Geralt said, caught off guard.

“He had run away from the small town where you left him. The people on that bank of the river eat horses. They are hungry in the winter.”

The witcher shuddered, his gratitude increasing significantly: “How do you know?”

“He told me,” the vampire replied, as if it was the most obvious answer in the world, “They came for him in the stables, but he got away. He was scared.”

“Then I should probably go and get him some treats and attention, make him feel safe again,” the witcher muttered.

“Yes,” the vampire agreed, “I think he would like that. I need to leave as well. Regis is calling for me. We are returning to Nilfgaard. Good-bye, Geralt.”

“Good-bye, Dettlaff.”

~*~

He was tending to the stallion, at this point more for the sake of affection than cleanliness. Roach snorted gently and nuzzled his shoulder while the witcher brushed his neck in long strokes. Even before Geralt heard the footsteps approach the horses’ ears had gone up.

“I see you have kept my gift in good shape, even after all of these years,” Emhyr spoke neutrally from the aisle of the stable, coming to stand by the box. He remained at a distance, looking around with a carefully neutral expression.

“He’s still a very fine horse,” the witcher mumbled, moving to comb out the mane, “aren’t you, old boy? Good speed, resistant, even a good character – though you’re a little bit skittish sometimes,” he fondly addressed the horse with the last words. Roach flicked his tail and turned away.

“Still upset with me, are you? Didn’t mean to leave you by yourself so long,” Geralt explained softly, ruffling the horses’ mane. “Emhyr, there is a bag of carrots out by your feet, would you mind?”

For a moment nothing happened. Then the other man slowly approached the box and bent to pick something up. Only when Emhyr passed him the bag did it occur to Geralt that maybe this was not a usual request for a former emperor. “Thanks,” he muttered, upending the bag into a bucket. With that, Roach’s attention was bound away from his person.

“Are you buying yourself back into his good graces?” Emhyr inquired, who had remained standing just outside the box.

The witcher nodded vaguely, giving the horse a last long glance. Then he closed the gate behind him. In the aisle, the two men suddenly found themselves much closer. Clearing his throat, Geralt noticed himself shifting his weight from foot to foot. The silence grew, and he fumbled for something to say when an earlier concern popped back into his head: “There is something I wanted to discuss with you, about the prisoners. Rideaux said all are meant to be sentenced. Surely he can’t mean to kill them all?”

To the witcher’s dismay, the high priest’s neutral face contorted with unconcealed fury: “Emperor Voorhis has made his orders quite clear. And after was happened to your friend’s unit, how can you possibly consider to spare them?”

Geralt shook his head angrily, not believing what he was hearing: “But what about the children, and the innocent? Half of the elves down there were simple people, refugees.”

Emhyr’s lips tightened: “We have no practical means of telling apart the innocent from the guilty. For the sake of order, an example must be made, lest any show of lenience would encourage our enemies. And hurt children grow into angry adults rather fast.” Sensing the witcher’s sharp disapproval, the former emperor lowered his gaze. Conflict was clearly written into his angry posture.

“Children who were torn away from their homes, hunted in dark forests, hungry and afraid.” The witcher’s voice was hard and challenging. To his surprise, the former emperor actually flinched. Breathing a few times, Geralt tried to reign in his ire. An argument would serve no one. When he trusted his voice to remain calm, he added: “Do you really believe this is necessary, or just?”

Emhyr swallowed, and walked a few paces. Crossing his arms over his chest, he turned back and once more raised his gaze to look at the witcher. His previously burning eyes had become dull, features closed: “Irrespective of what I may believe, or wish to do, there is such a thing as obedience to very clear orders. At this stage it would be unwise of me to oppose Morvran Voorhis openly. My ongoing presence in the palace already inspires tales of a power struggle between the emperor and I. Surely you can see the delicacy of that balance.”

“And do you think slaughtering a bunch of kids is going to help Morvran rebuild Aedirn as he plans? Showing mercy might get us all a lot farther in repairing relations than obvious cruelty, orders or no orders. Apart from that, Ciri would never stand for killing children.” To his growing disbelief, Emhyr seemed to shrink at those words. More diplomatically, Geralt continued: “And did Morvran know there were children inside when he gave the order?” To his relief, he saw Emhyr tilt his face in contemplation, a tiny spark alighting in his eyes.  Reinforcing the message, the witcher added: “I’m just saying these orders may require a bit of local reinterpretation, in the interest of the best outcome for the Empire, and the Emperor’s plans towards Aedirn.”

Their eyes locked fully, and after a few carefully timed blinks, Emhyr gave him a long suffering sigh and uncrossed his arms, before shaking his head with a huff: “I always thought your penchant to flaunt orders was a way to rile me up personally, but now I can see that you simply prefer to put yourself above the rules.”

“I reorient to the needs of the situation,” the witcher smiled carefully, “something that is essential in my line of business, if one wants to avoid dying in a ditch because the monster does not abide by the rules.”

“Remind me to never recommend you for any military role”, Emhyr groused lightly, “The Empire would fall into chaos within weeks, for a sheer lack of discipline.”

They looked at each other, Geralt raising his eyebrows as he dared the other man not to share his growing smile. Emhyr’s face remained entirely aloof – if one discounted the tiny deepening of the wrinkles around the mouth, which Geralt had slowly come to associate with concealed amusement. He felt his gaze getting locked on that mouth.

“I thought you liked my impertinence?” the witcher asked with an air of innocence, slowly stepping closer.

Something in the high priest’s footing relaxed. Encouraged, Geralt advanced. When the witcher stepped into his personal space, the high priest licked his lips: “Even if that idea was in the slightest way plausible, I would never concede such a thing.” His voice was slightly hoarse.

Without another reply, Geralt let their foreheads drop together. When Emhyr did not reprimand him, he angled his face until their lips met softly. Again. And once more.

“I missed you,” the witcher confessed softly, letting his hands crawl around the high priest’s shoulders. With a small sigh, Emhyr leant against him, face buried against his neck. Geralt felt his smile widen into a grin. He brought his arms more fully around the other man’s shoulders, holding him close.

“You’re a skittish one too, aren’t you?” he muttered, and Emhyr huffed.

“Did you just compare me to your horse?” The high priest’s voice was muffled against his shirt.

“It’s a beautiful, black, purebred Nilfgaardian stallion, likely from excellent heritage,” the witcher teased.

Emhyr pulled back slightly to give him an indignant stare: “I also distinctly recall you referring to that more than excellent stallion as ‘roach’ and ‘old boy’.”

At that, Geralt had to chuckle warmly: “All my horses have been called Roach, but I’ll have you know that after all the mares I have had over the years, there is only one ‘old boy’, and he is the best ride I’ve ever had.”

Emhyr blinked at him twice, incredulously. Then the witcher found himself dodging a surprisingly fast elbow to the ribs. Their scuffle was short-lived when Geralt pinned Emhyr to a support beam, keeping him in place easily with his full body weight pressed against him. He let him struggle for a second, then brought his arms around Emhyr’s face to keep it in place and give him another firm kiss. He knew he had not overextended his welcome when the high priest yielded under his touch and opened his mouth for a deeper kiss. Brushing his fingers along Emhyr’s sides, Geralt felt the former emperor shudder softly. The faintest trace of arousal reached his nose, and he resumed the kisses and caresses until his partner’s breath became heavy and his lips flush.

“I would love to have another ride, if you are amenable,” he whispered into Emhyr’s ear before sucking the lobe into his mouth. Emhyr stilled.

“Is this about good rides, then?” he asked lowly, voice suddenly flat, “Very well, let us proceed.”

Leaning back slightly, Geralt gently caressed his fingertips down Emhyr’s averted face: “I want your body, yes” he paused, gathering all his courage to speak his mind. “Never expected that… not-not with a man, but – I desire you. Your body, your maze of a mind, your anger, your fear, your need.” The words kept falling from his lips ever faster, haphazardously. “It’s visceral, and rash, and probably unwise, but I want to wrap myself around you, and taste it all. For whatever it’s worth – I…” He broke off, noticing the shocked look on the former emperor’s face. If he had ever made himself a fool in front of him, it was clearly now. Self-consciously, he fixed his gaze somewhere over Emhyr’s shoulder. He was about to bolt and hide, when he felt two hands clench around his arms and pull him in. The lips that landed on his were shaking. Closing his eyes, Geralt made no mention of the fact. He simply kissed back. Between breaths, their arms wound ever closer around each other. Unsure what Emhyr needed, he just held on, eventually burying his face in the other’s neck.

For a while, they just stood there.

“We could reconvene to my quarters,” the former emperor suggested hoarsely, and with a nervous nod Geralt accompanied him out of the stables. The guards outside the stable doors kept their faces blank, as did the guards outside the emperor’s temporary quarters. The stairwell curled up into a spacious octagonal space, lined by four arching windows on every second side. A set of screens divided a working space from a private area. The latter comprised a nice big tub, as well as an extravagant canopied bed. Without further distraction, they made for the latter, discarding garments as they went. Emhyr dropped by the bathing area only to pick up a bottle of oil, which he deposited by the bed. In the light of several candelabras, they perceived each other in the nude much more clearly than the last time.

Emhyr was still tall and broad-shouldered, albeit - as before - undressing did away with much of his bulk. The man who remained standing at the foot of the bed was lean, only lightly muscled, and just a little soft-bellied between protruding hip-bones. Unlike before, Geralt noticed more consciously that the hair on the high priest’s chest and intimate places had been removed. Enticed by the peculiar fact, he let his hand glide over the smooth skin. His fingertips began to trace over the collar bones, down the sternum, slowly circling the belly button, to fork over the base of Emhyr’s vaguely interested cock. Purposefully avoiding the organ, Geralt let his hand come around to cradle the smooth sack in his hand. The gesture felt more possessive than intended, but sent a strange thrill of arousal up the witcher’s spine. Stepping forward, he felt Emhyr step backward in synchrony. When the bed hit the back of his thighs, the former emperor regarded him briefly with a heavy gaze, before lying back on the sheets. The witcher crawled after him, coming to rest between his legs.

“You do not strike me as a novice to the pleasure between men,” Emhyr commented softly, “Yet you professed to be one.”

Geralt tilted his head, pressing a soft kiss to the inner side of his lover’s knee: “I grew up in a keep full of adolescent boys, miles away from the nearest woman… and later,” he pondered briefly, “there are things men may share with women as much as with men. But,” he caught Emhyr’s attentive eyes briefly, before giving his inner thigh another slow peck, “this here… this is different,” he swallowed, resting his cheek against his lover’s hip. A hand came to gently play with his hair as he extended his tongue to lick over the shaved scrotum. His mouth was occupied with teasing the sensitive skin, when Emhyr asked with a heavier voice: “Different how?”

“More,” Geralt admitted, releasing the skin he had been sucking on gently, “important,” he tested the word on his tongue. “These early encounters with other boys, or men, they were of a casual nature. But you – this…” Finding the amber orbs, he held his lover’s gaze. Emhyr’s hesitant expression betrayed a rare candidness, and Geralt could not do anything but crawl up to give him another gentle kiss. Burying his face against Emhyr’s shoulder, he swallowed.

“I could not imagine anything between us ever not being serious, having consequences – we have so much history, a child… so many ties that will always matter…” he trailed off, unable to express his feelings.

“Yet we are throwing all reason into the wind by engaging in this…” Emhyr said tightly, breaking off with a noticeable swallow. His Adam’s apple jumped under the witcher’s gaze.

Geralt raised his head, and their gazes locked in uncertainty and longing. Mutely, the witcher nodded and followed his lover’s pull into another shaky kiss. He smelled their mutual tension, anxiety, and lust. Faces tucked together, the witcher brought his hips down to roll against the other man. Emhyr caught on and locked his long legs around the witcher’s back. There was no finesse in their frottage; nothing but the pure need to feel each other close. When their excitement grew beyond the satisfaction their current preoccupation could yield, Emhyr pressed him back, and Geralt followed, lying down on his back. The high priest found the oil, and put it within easy reach, while he turned around to face between the witcher’s legs. With a quickening pulse, Geralt watched as Emhyr wrapped a slick hand around his base, and without further ado, closed his lips around the head of his cock. Finding his lover’s hips within range, the witcher replicated the motion. Lying on their sides, doubly joint, they gave and received. The witcher felt his concentration slip more and more the tighter his groin got. Catching his breath, he drew back a little, just in the moment Emhyr began to suck him deeper. Gasping, Geralt felt the tingle of pleasure rise. An urgent push to Emhyr’s hip did nothing to dislodge the ardent mouth, and then the witcher came hard while his lover swallowed around him.

When Geralt had come down enough from his high to pay attention to the other, Emhyr had wrapped a hand around the root of his own cock. Hungrily the witcher watched as the high priest pleasured himself a few inches from his face. Then a thought came to him. Discretely reaching for the oil, he coated his fingers, and let them caress over his lover’s crease. Playing with the furl, he gently dipped a digit into the tight heat while resuming his oral activities. Emhyr moaned, gradually relaxing around the intrusion. Not much after Geralt tasted the steady drops of ejaculate leaking from his tip. Stroking and sucking his lover at a moderate but steady pace, he could hear his heartbeat accelerate until the prostrate under his finger began to swell. In anticipation Geralt drew back a little, just when the first spurt hit the back of his throat. He swallowed the salty liquid clumsily, wiping away the spills from his lips once he removed his mouth. Slowly, he rose to turn around, resting his head on Emhyr’s shoulder. The high priest wrapped an arm around him, and together they bathed in the rhythm of their joint heartbeats, before sleep pulled them under.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you enjoyed this chapter, please leave a comment, and thank you for the kudos!


	9. Between Death and Life

_27 th Yule, 1286_

 

The harbour bell of Tair’afon rung loudly in the misty air of the morning. Snow had fallen again in the night, leaving the town covered in white. The long rows of Nilfgaardian soldiers posed a stark contrast in their black armour. The citizens of the town, as well as the traders who had made halt, gathered in the streets and on the open square near the docks. Along a circle of gallows surrounding the square, and three dozen captured Scoia’tael were dangling in the mist, moving ever so slowly with the occasional gust of wind. In the midst of the square, atop a stone platform, a pyre was being built. A few men were hurrying about, shovelling away the snow and stacking dry wood around a high post. Oil was being poured from large amphorae. A pale sun had risen over the wintery town by the time the drums began to beat. Pa-dum. Da-da-da-da, Pa-dum. Adults stretched their necks to see, while children ducked between their legs to spy past the shields of the soldiers. Pa-dum. Along the main road to the port, a wagon was escorted by more guards. Chained to it was a dirty, grim-looking elf with long black hair, staring ahead with a blank face. He did not flinch when the crowd threw small items and insults at him. Food was too precious in winter. When the prisoner was hit by a few larger rocks, almost knocking him of the wagon, the soldiers intervened lazily. Where the wagon had come past, the crowd quieted again. Yet their anticipation remained, and soon a mumbling rose again when a second group neared. High on their horses, the officers of the garrison escorted four men who had been the main talk of town the last day: first among them rode a tall man wearing a white fur cloak. All his garments were white, safe for the heavy golden medallion of the sun hanging around his neck, and the ceremonial golden torch aflame in his hand. Behind the High Priest of the Golden Sun rode three men. The one in the middle most townsfolk knew by then as Geralt of Rivia, the famous witcher, and as the newest gossip went, Prince of Nilfgaard, honorary father to the empress. He was easy to recognise by the white hair and twin-swords. On the left rode the captain of the local garrison, holding the black and gold banner of the Empire, and on the right a man cloaked in blue and black, the silver Temerian lilies stitched into a banner he carried. As the second escort neared the square, the soldiers closed the road behind them. The people followed, all excited to see the execution. By the time the high priest arrived, the elven rebel had already been tied to the pyre. His face was hidden beyond the long matted hair, as was O’Dim’s brand. He stood straight and still.

“We are gathered here to bring justice,” the voice of the high priest rang over the square, once the drums had become silent, “to all those who have suffered under the terror the outlaws known as Scoia’tael have brought to these lands and their people – to apply the law to those who have broken it – to condemn those who sought to destroy, again and again, any effort to rebuilt trade and security the North. But these times are over. Your voices are heard by the Emperor and Empress in the capital, who seek to bring you peace and prosperity. A new king will be crowned in Aedirn soon, and he will see to enforce law and order. But while he arrives, the law of will be executed from Nilfgaard, by the power of her swords and the grace of the Golden Sun.”

The high priest turned to face the prisoner.

“You, Yaevinn of the Scoia’tel, stand accused and sentenced of multiple acts of violence, including murder, sabotage, rape, and blackmail. For those, you are sentenced to death, so it is demanded by the law. We give your soul to the fire, so that it may be cleansed and reborn to a new day. As by the custom of this kingdom, I ask you if there are any last words you wish to share with those present, to alleviate the weight on your soul.”

It was only for those standing near the pyre to see when the prisoner raised his head, pulled back his lips over the teeth, and snarled: “Deithwen Addan yn Carn aep Morvudd - traitor to those who followed you. Our sins are your sins, but where we are a lake, you are the ocean. Do not speak to us about justice. And you, gwynbleidd, have become his dog!” The elves furious eyes slid to the witcher who stood behind the high priest. The white wolf’s face was cold as he shook his head. Turning away with a scoff, the elf addressed the high priest once more: “And you dare to accuse us?” Then he began to yell so loudly that even the onlookers could hear: “I want you all, every single d’hoine swine, to know what it is like to have your home taken from you, your family ripped away, to be scorned and hunted, laughed at, spat at! I want you to lose everything under the yoke of your enemies, and scream with the loss, until you beg for death! For death shall be the only path left to you!”

The high priest’s face remained motionless among the wave of murmurs that rose from the crowd: “Kill the scum!”, “Torch him!”, “Make the bastard burn!”

“In honour of the fallen among the Temerian Blue Stripes, Commander Roche will carry out the execution,” the high priest said firmly over the din, holding out the ceremonial torch: “Proceed.”

If anything, the prisoner’s face hardened. The commander bowed briefly to the high priest, and with a grim smile took the torch from him, whereupon the high priest stepped a few paces back from the pyre. The witcher remained right at his back.

“This is for Ves, you son of a whore,” Roche grit out, stepping to the front to look the prisoner in the eye.

Then, as if out of nowhere, an arrow hit him in the shoulder, and the commander toppled forward against the pyre. The torch dropped from his grip, and fell upon the wood and straw. The latter began to smoke a little, then quickly caught fire.

~*~

Devlin aep Meara’s eyes widened, and he swivelled around from his place in the crowd into the direction the arrow had come from: the river. In the silvery light of the winter sky, he could make out the masts of several boats swaying in the harbour. Blinking, he scanned the area again, when he noticed a figure crouched on a high beam atop a ship, clearly holding a bow. Only a breath later, a second arrow hit the Temerian commander in the back.  

“Aelirenn!” the prisoner on the pyre cried with passion. Devlin was too far away to help the commander, who had sunken onto the burning logs. Instead, he pushed himself out of the panicking crowd, towards the ship.

~*~

The witcher’s gaze was drawn to his crumbled friend and the rising flames, when his brain caught up with the situation. Cursing, he signed quen over the high priest - not a second too late. A crossbow bolt hit the shield in a crackle of energy. Drawing his sword, Geralt deflected another bolt aimed at the former emperor. Gazing up, he found two shadows crouched on a roof top. Reigning in his instinct to give chase, he reinforced the quen instead, and dragged Emhyr off the platform into cover. Almost immediately, they were surrounded by guards with large shields.

“Up on the warehouse roof!” he called to the soldiers, then he sought Emhyr’s face, “Are you hurt?”

The high priest shook his head, wide-eyed.

Giving him a quick, reassuring nod, Geralt dragged himself back up to the platform, deflected another bolt that was loosened the moment he got back into view, and ran over to the pyre. Casting another quen on himself, he grabbed Roche’s legs and dragged him out of the fire. Above them, Yaevinn’s pained screams began to fill the air. Another arrow hit its mark, smacking into the wood above them. Geralt ducked instinctively, when the elf’s screams suddenly quieted. A river of red gushed down from where the arrow had ripped apart his carotid artery. His pain-filled eyes blinked once more, looking straight into the witcher’s frenzied face. Then he was dead. The mark on his face glowed briefly like the fire around him – then it vanished.

~*~

Devlin was running up to the docks, several of his comrades in tow. Drawing his daggers, he tried to follow the attacker. The archer had shouldered his bow after a few shots, and disappeared somewhere down the mast. Devlin almost lost him when he used a rope to swing beyond his line of vision. Running on deck of the ship where the archer had been, he looked over the railing to see a smaller boat row away from the large vessel. Balancing on the rear of the skiff, he saw the archer again, holding another arrow at the ready. He ducked behind the railing, spying through a gap as the elf shot his arrow into their direction. Almost immediately, he was aiming another one. He was quick, Devlin cursed, and looking back to where one of his comrades had fallen with an arrow in his eye, he was accurate as well. Hellishly accurate for a man who, going by the bandana covering his face, had only one eye. _Iorveth_ , Devlin realised: the archer could only be the famous Scoia’tael leader himself. He could not let him get away…

~*~

Ignoring the heat where Roche’s burning hair and clothes touched his skin, the witcher carried the unmoving man towards Emhyr and the guards. A heavy thump in the back made him aware that something had gone through his shield, but his armour repelled whatever it was. Jumping into cover, he lowered his friend down immediately and checked for signs of live. Roche’s face and clothes were horribly burned, red and black and blistered. The hair on his head was half-gone, and the fabric of his gambeson was badly damaged and still smouldering. Shovelling snow with his hands, the witcher put out the flames.

“We need a healer, urgently,” he yelled desperately, battling with the knowledge that any help might be coming too late. Desperately, he covered Roche’s face with snow. Only years of gruesome experiences prevented him from recoiling from the horrible wounds. Vaguely, he became aware of an urgent voice in his ear. Emhyr was saying something to him, and Geralt shook his head to clear his thoughts. They were not out of danger yet. Also, there was currently nothing he could do for Vernon Roche. Drawing the high priest close to him, Geralt cast another quen around them. Standing surrounded by guards, inside a globe of shields, he felt his heart hammer. Emhyr’s closeness soothed and threw him into terror at the same time.

“’m not gonna let anything happen to you,” he promised, extending his senses as wide as he could, ready to respond to danger at any second.

~*~

Livid with frustration, Devlin looked after the skiff. Desperately, he wished for a ranged weapon, but he had none. His comrade’s blood was running over the planks of the desk, and he could do nothing. Then his gaze found the crossbow hanging off his comrade’s belt. On the river, he watched the skiff gain speed and made his choice. Leaving his cover, he rolled over to where his comrade had fallen. His hands had just loosened the crossbow from its ties, when a piercing pain shot through his hip. Moaning in pain, he let himself drop behind a crate. An arrow was stuck deep in his flesh. He did not try to dislodge it. Squinting around the corner of the crate, he saw the accursed archer. Then something appeared in the mirroring surface of the water, almost impossible to see. The elf began suddenly reared back, then tumbled to his knees. Not believing his eyes, Devlin saw the silhouette of a man against the light on the water – a silhouette that should not have been there. When the spy blinked, it was gone. What remained were a few agitated elves, pulling at the collapsed shape of their leader. Only a few blinks later, all the elves were dead.

His head felt fuzzy. Gritting his jaw, Devlin pressed a hand over his wound, finding his breeches wet with blood. Damnit. In that same moment, he heard footsteps approach on the deck. His head swimming, he saw Rideaux kneel next to him.

“Meara, what happened here before I arrived?” he demanded harshly.

Devlin swallowed, trying to remain awake. “Shadow,” the spy muttered helplessly, repeating the unbelievable, “I saw it, killed the elves.”

To his relief, Rideaux nodded. Perhaps he was not crazy.

“Easy now, Meara. Help is coming. Do not move,” his master ordered sternly, and Devlin nodded. Then everything went dark.

~*~

Geralt’s adrenaline dissipated only slowly once the soldiers around him gave the all-clear to move back to the garrison. On the high priest’s gentle but firm insistence, he had let go of Emhyr, but stayed within his proximity for every step of their short journey back. Once inside the fortified building, he slunk back from the argument that erupted promptly between Rideaux and the local captain. He fleetingly hoped the man would not find himself on the next pyre for failing to secure the town from the attack.

“Where is Roche?” he asked a passing officer, who just shrugged at him. Prowling the hallway, he ran into a faint-looking Captain var Arlen.

“Prince Geralt, good that I found you,” the captain called, “Viscount Rideaux want’s you in the morgue.”

Relieved for the distraction, the witcher followed the captain down into the cellars. The usual smell of death accosted his nose. Torch-light flickered over the rough stone walls of the oblong room. Two tables were occupied, the bodies covered. Rideaux was gazing down at one of them, a corner of the cloth held up by his hand. Slowly, Geralt stepped closer.

“Look,” the master spy said lowly, letting the cloth drop aside.

Geralt looked. The body was familiar. Iorveth. Another dead man he had known, perhaps regarded as a friend. With a sigh, he thought back to that day in Vergen, when he had saved the elf’s live from Henselt’s soldiers. That had been the same day on which Roche had murdered the Kaedweni king with his support, after Henselt had murdered the Blue Stripes, raped Ves, and even had the gall to gloat about it. With disgust, Geralt let the memory pass. Only days ago, Roche’s unit had been murdered a second time. The blonde lieutenant was dead. Whatever empathy he had once held for the Scoia’tael was mutating into helpless rage at a world that created its own monsters. Monsters who burned the earth until only suffering was left. Yet underneath, they were all just people. With a heavy heart, the witcher sent a prayer to an unnamed goddess to treat the dead gently.

“That is Iorveth,” Geralt said to Rideaux.

“I know,” the master spy replied, “I knew him from his time in the Vrihedd Brigade. A promising officer, gifted and remarkably humane for somebody who had seen all the hardship of those days. Letting him survive the massacre at the Ravine of the Hydra was a terrible mistake.”

“Perhaps betraying the Vrihedd Brigade was a terrible mistake,” the witcher countered dully.

“It was a masterful strategy of the Northern rulers to break the alliance between Emhyr and the elves, yet at the end the Northern people, human and elf, paid most dearly for it. A terrible waste of potential,” Rideaux sighed, “But enough rumination on past regrets. There is something specific I wanted your expertise on.”

And with that, he drew a swirling pattern onto a piece of paper. The witcher blanched.

“Do you recognise this symbol? It was branded onto the elven commander’s face,” the master spy asked, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

Swallowing hard, the witcher nodded: “Last thing I ever wished to see again.”

“I noticed this earlier. Now this Yaevinn is dead, and asking him has become a moot point. So, to our great misfortune, is Commander Roche. I understand you knew each other well. My condolences.” With those words, the vampire rucked his head over to the second table.

Something heavy settled over the witcher’s heart, and his steps became leaden as he approached the second body. Drawing the cloth away, he winced. There was nothing left of his friend’s face; a mangled red mess stared back at him, destroyed eyes milky in their ruby beds. Bile rose in his throat, and he let the cloth drop back into place.

“Do you mind if I step outside for a bit?” Geralt heard himself say, and the vampire nodded with sigh. The witcher stumbled out of the morgue.

Only hours ago he had been alive. They had sat together, mulling over recent events, mourning the dead. Now only Geralt was left. The Blue Stripes were gone. Without Roche, there was no resurrection. Not like back then, when Ves, Roche, and he had stumbled out of Henselt’s abandoned camp. Images flashed through his mind: Roche laughing, Roche angry. He had been angry so often. Roche staring up the river bank near Flotsam, calling Iorveth a whoreson. Roche introducing himself as Emhyr var Emreis, spice merchant. Geralt had to chuckle, and felt a cold tear running down his cheek. Now the two enemies were lying side by side in the same morgue. Dead. For the first time peaceful in each other’s presence.

Geralt was not sure where his feet had carried him in the cold of the night, when he eventually found himself on the empty street outside the trade association’s building. Only guards were on patrol around him; not a single civilian seen outside. Numbly, he approached the gate and was let inside. Seeking his room, he emptied his churning stomach over the night pot, rinsed his mouth, and divested himself of the armour, before he fell straight into bed. The sheets were soft and cool. He drifted off. Sometime later, he awoke when the door opened and closed again. Soft steps approached his bed, then the side dipped under the weight of a person sitting behind him. In the dark, he could make out Emhyr’s smell, layered faintly with sweat and smoke. A hand caressed over his shoulder gently. Geralt let it happen. When the movement stopped, he wriggled forward in bed and raised the blanket behind him a little in invitation.

“Stay,” he muttered sleepily.

The bed dipped upward, and he heard the rustling of clothes. Then Emhyr climbed in behind him, and wrapped a secure arm around his waist. ‘Spice merchant’ Roche’s voice quipped in his mind, and Geralt inhaled shakily. Emhyr’s breath rolled over his neck as the high priest held him tight.

“I am immeasurably grateful that you have returned to me in good health, and furthermore that you preserved my life today,” his lover whispered against his skin, “and I am devastated at the loss of your friends.” Unable to speak, Geralt squeezed his hand. Recalling the moment on the platform, the witcher realised he had not hesitated a second. He could have saved Roche from the second arrow, from the flames - if in that blink of a moment he had decided differently. But even submerged in his grief, Geralt could not possibly regret his choice. Letting the tears fall, he turned around to bury himself in Emhyr’s embrace.

“So am I,” he whispered roughly. The realisation how close he had come to losing Emhyr as well settled heavily in his stomach. Soaking up his lover’s body warmth gratefully, he found a margin of peace from the dreadful feeling of guilt, even if sleep evaded him.

In the dark, Yaevinn’s words continued to haunt him. Not the curses on the pyre. No. But the words the Scoia’tael had spoken in the caves, just before Geralt had lost consciousness:

_“Should I tell Chireadan to give your love to Yennefer, when he writes to her?”_

 

_In his dreams, he found Yennefer, ensnared in glass in the middle of an endless snowy plain. He was about to call out to her, when the violet eyes began to glow and the glass burst in a magnificent magical explosion. Throwing up a shield as well as his arms, he evaded the flying splinters. Looking back to where she had stood, he could only make out a tall standing mirror. As before, a crack went down the middle. Inside the glass, O’Dim smiled at him, curling in the last finger extended on his hand._

 

 

 


	10. The Weight of Truth

 

We would often be sorry if our wishes were granted.

-Aesop

 

 

_30th of Yule, 1286, Nilfgaard of the Golden Towers, under the new reign of the Twin Suns_

 

The witcher’s steps were leaden as he slowly climbed the long stairs to the top of Imbolc tower. What were but months since his last visit felt like years to him. When he had stepped into the courtyard, followed by a small escort, the atmosphere had been subdued. Without talking to any of the mages, he had made his way to the tower. Nobody had interceded him. They had been too busy bowing and curtsying. Arriving at the heavy wooden door, alone, he half expected it to slam open when he approached, but nothing happened. A tingle of magic lay on the wood as he pressed his hand against it. With a click, the door opened. Wearily, he glanced inside.

The study was empty, as far as he could tell. The desk was tidy, the megascope gone. Not a single book was left behind on the shelves that lined the walls. He took a few steps into the abandoned room, when he found his reflection in a large standing mirror. There was a long crack down the middle, intersected by a circular scattering of small cracks where something must have hit the glass hard. On the ground he found a heavy, hard-edged book: _The Law of Three_. Curious, he picked it up to leaf through the pages. Goethia. Forbidden Magic. Knowing Yen, he was not surprised. Scanning the sitting area, he found an unrolled map of the continent on the low table. Atop the map sat a small white wolf statue. As he picked it up, the statuette came alive and sniffed his hand. He remembered the statue’s purpose well enough. Wrapping his fingers around the stone, he felt the small limbs break. With a howl and whine, the statuette cracked apart, and became still. Walking to the balcony doors, he blasted the remaining fragments into dust, and let the wind blow it over the city.  

So she had searched for him. He wondered why. Back inside, a splashing from beyond another door told him where Yennefer was. No further point in dallying, he thought to himself harshly, and followed the sound into her bedroom. He found her reclining in her bathtub, the foam of the bath barely covering her naked breasts. His gaze rose to her narrowed mouth, then further up to her cold eyes. Her face was unblemished, no swirling mark to be seen.

“Didn’t you like who you saw in the mirror?” he asked casually, leaning against her dresser. Only years of knowing her let him detect the small ways in which her face darkened. For a moment, neither of them said anything. Then she rose from her bath, foam dripping down her beautiful body, and stalked up to him. He easily deflected the small burst of crackling energy she sent his way.

“Do you have any idea what I have been through?” she hissed at him, face utterly furious, “What can you possibly know?” From a rack she grabbed a towel and wrapped it around herself.

“That making pacts with powerful entities such as Master Mirror seems unimaginably stupid for an experienced sorceress like you?” he countered lazily, and her expression froze. It was but a nuance, perhaps small enough to be overlooked by someone who did not know her like he did. But he did see, and that itself must have shown on his face. She did not say a word, but they both knew her reaction had betrayed her. Then she sunk down on the rim of the tub, shoulders tense.

 “What did O’Dim give you?” Geralt asked with a weary sigh, “What under the sun could have ever been so valuable that you made a pact with something like him?”

For a long breath her face remained blank. Then she smiled sadly: “A decade ago, I was desperate to find Ciri. Emhyr was growing impatient, the White Frost was coming, and I had exhausted all my abilities to locate her… and then, in the Nilfgaardian library, I found accounts of a being that could fulfil all wishes, answer all questions… and I summoned him.”

The ire in Geralt’s heart began to dim as they stared at each other. “And did he help you?” he had asked unhappily.

Yennefer nodded softly: “Yes.”

“He did not cheat you?”

“No. He told me how to find her, and it happened exactly that way. He told me to write to you, where to meet you, where to find you after the moving front line had spoilt the original meeting place. And you found her,” she sighed, chucking coldly, “Is that cheating? Or was it the flap of a butterfly’s wing that changed history?”

He was silent, yet he wanted to scream: “Why didn’t you just confide in me, in anyone?” He was not sure he wanted to hear the answer, but he had to ask.

She looked at him, unrepentantly: “It was not a priority at the time, I thought I could handle it. And I did.” She shrugged coldly. “And then you were gone. Both of you. No goodbye, no gratitude, no visits. Nothing.”

There. She had said it. Guilt churned in his stomach.

“And was it worth it?” he heard himself ask. His voice rang cold in his own ears. “Does ruining Ciri’s life make you happy?”

“No.” Her voice was even when she said it. “But it was necessary. You have oriented your whole life to Ciri’s wellbeing, or what you perceived it to be, Geralt. But not everybody is cut out of that cloth.”

He shook his head, unwilling to just accept her words: “You chose politics over family.”

“No,” she replied, getting up and walking away from him, “When you disappeared, my family was gone. Only politics was left. Did you expect me to wait for you two forever?” In the doorway, she turned back to him once more: “I am done with you. I am sorry about the difficulties Ciri has to go through, but she made her own choices. If you don’t mind, I’d prefer for you to leave. Now. There is nothing left to be said between us.”

“I have a last question,” he admitted, getting up as well, “Did you tell the Scioa’tael about the travelling plans of the Temerian delegation?”

Laughing coldly, she stopped walking: “Geralt, I fulfilled a pact. What difference does it make to you?”

He had to breathe in deeply not to hit her there and then: “Vernon Roche is dead. Ves is dead, together with all of the Blue Stripes. Iorveth and Yaevinn are dead, as are several dozen elves. Some Scoia’tael, some mere refugees. Weren’t at least some of them your friends at some point?”

She lowered her head, looking away.

“Did you intend for them to die?” he asked, helplessly.

“No,” she acknowledged after a while, voice low, “I simply fulfilled the last wish: to be noticed. What dear Yaevinn wanted, literally,” her voice shook as she gave him a furious stare, “was _a space to make his voice heard by a ruler_. An encounter with Anaïs could have brought that about, but then everything escalated when they slaughtered the Blue Stripes instead.”

“Aelirenn,” Geralt said weakly.

She frowned, not understanding.

“In Tair’afon, when he was executed. He had a space to make his voice heard, and a former emperor was present,” the witcher explained.

“Had he not, I imagine I would still be carrying that accursed brand,” she huffed.

“Does Ciri know?” he wondered suddenly, “When she talked to you, did you tell her?”

Yen nodded: “Most of it. She knows what caused me to enter into the pact, and whose wishes I fulfilled. She also knows that I tried to spare her a loveless marriage, and found a way to save her father’s life.”

“And she forgave you?” Geralt asked wearily. He could not find that capacity in his own heart. Not after the last days. Perhaps not even before he had seen Roche’s face, almost lost Emhyr… he clamped down harshly on that thought.

With a withering stare, Yen shook her head: “No, but we share political goals. She knows that I am of more use to her alive than dead.” At the witcher’s uncomprehending face, she chuckled cynically. “After all these years, you have remained remarkably naïve. She is an empress now, Geralt. She cannot afford to remain your innocent little girl, if she intends to have any impact on the future of the Empire. Do you want her to become nothing but a decorative breeding mare on Voorhis’ arm?”

He stared at her resentfully as she dressed with a wave of her hand and disappeared into the empty study. Left behind in her bedroom, he swallowed down profanities he knew would only amuse her. His eyes slid over trunks and chests – the usual extravagant pile she travelled with. Looking at the empty bathtub, he realised there was not an inch of love or compassion for her left in his heart. Only the emptiness where she had once lived within him rang with an echo of sorrow, grief for a person who had perished and left behind a hybrid: somebody who looked like Yen, and shared many of her qualities, yet was a stranger to him. A single tear slid down the witcher’s cheek. He barely noticed as it fell onto the collar of his doublet. A last time he took in the sight of her things around him. Then, slowly, he returned back to the study, where she was standing motionlessly in front of the mirror. Over her shoulder, he saw the tear in the glass, dissect her image into two parts. As always, she wore black and white.

“Goodbye Geralt,” she said, violet eyes shimmering with a fleeting glimmer of nostalgia, “I hope you will find happiness, you and Ciri. She is lucky to have you.” Yen’s mouth twisted into a sad little smile, “My new duties in Vengerberg await me. I doubt we will see each other anytime soon, so – farewell.”

As if in an afterthought, she turned around and opened a portal beneath the witcher. He was too stunned to react. Then his knees hit the green of the palace garden hard. With a pained groan, he rose to his feet, brushing the grass off his trousers. Blinking against the sunlight, he looked to the north across the river, onto the city of golden towers.

“Farewell,” he said, hollow-voiced, into the empty space of the gardens.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where this act of The Seed that Burst into Flame ends. I hope you enjoyed reading the series. I expect there will be another sequel, but I don't know when the inspiration strikes me. 
> 
> One intention I have in this story act is that there are shades of grey when it comes to protagonists and antagonists, and that character motives remain complex and sometimes contradictory. Also, that plans fail, people are not aware of something, etc. I hope this enriches the plot, makes some elements more realistic - yet do not confuse the reader too much. If something remains incomprehensible, please let me know, and I will see if I can connect things better.


End file.
